The Eternal American
by cakuramen
Summary: The American colonies were found by the British, but their personification wasn't. Raised by a Native American mother and then a Boston colonist family, Alfred F Jones's life takes a much different path without one Arthur Kirkland. Human names, mostly AU (also not abandoned, don't worry!)
1. New Haven

The colonies were found by England, but their personification was not. Instead, raised briefly by a Native American mother and then a small Boston colonist family, Alfred F Jones's life takes a much different path without one Arthur Kirkland.  
>Human names used, mostly AU Hetalia-wise but follows historic events to the best of the author's ability.<p>

Hello! I'm commencing a new fic with mutiple chapters! \(^_^)/  
>This is the introductory chapter, so not much of anything exciting, but please look forward to more later.<br>I disclaim, and own nothing.

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><p>_V~-~-~V_<p>

1766

It was a quiet morning in the peaceful British colony of New Haven. The inhabitants busied themselves with day-to-day chores, the men opening up their businesses while the smell of the women's cooking drifted through the air. It was mid-spring, a chill still hung in the early morning air, but the afternoons were pleasantly warm, not yet having acquired that stifling heat the New World's summers were known for.

The door of one of the many small houses that lined one of the dirt side streets of New Haven opened, revealing a woman, looking to be in her early twenties, her blond hair pulled up in a bun, away from her bright blue eyes. She wore an apron over her long skirts, and had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she carried the washing out.

"Auntie Sarah! Auntie Sarah!"

"Ma! Ma!"

The woman stopped as two pairs of hands grabbed the back of her dress. Shifting the washing to one arm, she looked over her shoulder.

"Emeline! Alfred! Stop that this instant, you will make me drop the washing!"

The pair, a young girl and a slightly older boy, giggled, and grinned identical wide grins at Sarah.

"Sorry, Ma, but Pa said he's gonna come home early today, and to tell you!"

Sarah gave the back of her house a disapproving look, as if her glare could reach her husband. "If your Pa wants to tell me something, he can come tell me! But he has to send two troublesome messengers instead!" Her face broke into a smile, and she reached down to ruffle the boy's hair. "Why don't you two go play in the field while I finish hanging the washing? Perhaps I'll have some maple candy ready when you return."

The little girl squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement. "Maple candy! Maple candy!"

Turning her gaze on the boy, Sarah gave him a slightly sharper look. "Make sure Emma doesn't get into any trouble, and don't let those boys down the street scare her with insects the way they did last time I let you go somewhere by yourselves."

"Sure thing, Auntie Sarah!" the boy exclaimed cheerfully. "Let's go, Em! I wanna show you that creek I found a few days ago!"

_V~-~-~V_

Sarah watched the children run off towards the woods, marveling at how Alfred could manage to be so childish and so mature at the same time. She trusted him with Emeline in ways even she didn't understand. But the boy was charismatic, with an infectious smile, and it seemed everyone around him developed an innate feeling of kinship with the boy.

It was amazing, she mused, how a boy she'd introduced seven years ago as the orphaned child of a distant relative had managed to worm his way so thoroughly into the hearts of those around him. She still remembered the night she'd found him, on an ordinary carriage ride from Boston just before she became pregnant with her only child.

_1761_

_Sarah had accompanied Franklin on his business trip to Boston to visit an old friend of hers living there. The trip itself had been uneventful, though enjoyable, but the carriage ride back to New Haven would change their lives._

_It had been nearly dark, and the autumn air was had Sarah wrapped up in layers of shawls in the carriage compartment. She had drawn back the curtains to watch the countryside pass by when she caught sight of a small figure curled on the side of the road._

"_Stop! Stop the carriage!" she'd called through the wall at the driver._

"_Sarah, what are you doing?" Franklin asked, but she'd thrown open the door and hurried to where she'd seen the figure. "Sarah!"_

_She spotted the little head of blond hair and stooped next to it. Instantly, the child (for that's what it was, a little blond child) started, sitting up suddenly, staring at Sarah with wary blue eyes._

"_It's all right, child, I shan't hurt you," she said soothingly, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the boy's face, but he recoiled._

"_Wutahshuntar," he muttered angrily. Sarah stared. Had the boy just spoken in tongues?_

"_Pardon?" she replied, but the boy pursed his mouth into a thin line. Just then, she noticed that he was shivering, wearing only a loose white shirt and short pants, with no shoes._

"_Poor child, you must be freezing! Come, I will take you home and warm you," she exclaimed, going into her protective mode. Sarah could never later explain the pull she felt toward the boy, but it was an innate feeling of comfort and need. So she continued to speak soothingly, telling him who she was, of her husband and her home in New Haven with its little garden and stone kitchen, until the wariness faded from the boy's eyes. Reaching out, she took one hand, noting that the other was closed protectively around what appeared to be a pendant of some sort, the leather strap dangling through his fingers._

"_Come along, we're going home."_

The boy didn't have a name, and from his silence Sarah assumed he didn't speak much English. He'd accepted a warm bath and fresh clothes she'd borrowed from a neighbor, submitting to her affections and gradually reciprocating them. She and her husband decided to name him Alfred simply because Sarah liked the name. She'd wanted to name him Franklin at first, but her husband had said that it was a name he would reserve for his own child. But he did consent to making that Alfred's middle name.

"Alfred Franklin Jones," he had said, "A good name indeed."

_V~-~-~V_

"Come on, Em! Come see this!" Alfred energetically tugged his younger sister through the woods, stopping every now and then for her to untangle her skirts from a passing bush or vine.

"Is it a creek? Because I've already seen lots of creeks, Alfie!" she whined, stopping yet again to remove a twig from the hem of her dress.

"No, it's not a creek, Em, it's much more special than that!"

Emeline looked at her brother accusingly, her blue eyes so much like his own. "Then you lied to Ma, Alfie. Pa always says lying isn't good."

"But it's a special thing, just for me and you, not for Auntie Sarah and Uncle Franklin. Telling them would make it not special anymore, see?"

Emeline paused, thinking this logic over. "Okay," she said, "but it must be _very_ special. Is it _very, very _special, Alfie?"

"Yes Em, it's very, very special," Alfred said exasperatedly. "Do you want to see or not?"

"Yes!"

Looking at Emeline's grin, Alfred couldn't help but smile back. He could never stay irritated with her for long at all.

Tugging her through the underbrush, he lead her to a clearing. "Wait here," he whispered, stopping her just at the edge. Stepping out into the grass, Alfred whispered, "Lulu, pyas, Lulu…"

Emeline hung back, watching her brother. She'd never heard the strange words he spoke clearly. He whispered them sometimes to himself, and she often tried to make out what he was saying, but it definitely wasn't the language she spoke. Despite her curiosity, she never asked what the words were. They seemed like something special, just for Alfred to know.

As she watched, his strange whispers were rewarded by the appearance of a small white rabbit at the edge of the clearing. Emeline gasped audibly, earning herself a stern glance from Alfred that clearly told her to be quiet. She nodded, but he'd already turned back to the rabbit, coaxing it towards him with the strange mutterings. Eventually, the rabbit got close enough that Alfred could scoop it up in his arms without any protest. Reaching into his pocket, Alfred brought out a carrot, obviously snitched from the pantry at home. Once the rabbit was happily chewing, Alfred motioned for Emeline to come forward, holding a finger over his lips to indicate she still had to be silent.

Tiptoeing as best she could Emeline made her way over and kneeled beside Alfred. "Her name is Lulu," Alfred whispered. "I think she's comfortable enough to let you pet her." Emeline tentatively reached forward, putting a small hand on the rabbit's back. When it didn't move, she began to stroke its fur, marveling at how soft it was.

"Well, look at that," Alfred said, "I do believe Lulu likes you!"

"How did you find her, Alfie?" Emeline whispered, finally daring to speak.

"Oh, Lulu and I go way back," Alfred said cheerfully. "I knew her ma, and then met Lulu."

"She's pretty," Emeline whispered in awe.

"Keep her a secret from Auntie Sarah and Uncle Franklin, right Em?"

"Why?" she asked, removing her eyes from the bunny to meet Alfred's.

"They might not like Lulu as much as you and I do," Alfread replied carefully, "so she'll be our special secret. Promise?"

"Will I get to meet her again?"

"Of course you can."

"Promise!"

_V~-~-~V_

One thing the children loved more than anything else was when Franklin arrived home early from work. He was a bookbinder, mender, and seller, working in the ever-growing heart of New Haven. Since he was a child, he'd had a love for stories, and his repertoire was endless.

Emeline loved the Bible stories about animals, and the old fables from England, about magic and fairies and mysterious woods. Alfred, on the other hand, never ceased to be amazed by tales of chivalry and daring by the old knights, or the exploits of Greek heroes. Every time a new story arrived at Franklin's shop, he would first bring it home to read to his children.

The two would be dressed in their identical white nightclothes, curled together at the head of Franklin and Sarah's bed, Emeline leaning on Alfred's shoulder while he wrapped his arms around her. Sarah would sit in her rocking chair, the one her father had made for her mother years ago when they'd first come to the colonies, and sew, mending a torn knee in Alfred's overalls or removing a hem in Emeline's skirt.

And Franklin would sit just in front of the children, a book in his lap, watching as identical expressions of excitement appeared on their faces. Their previous position would be abandoned in favor of sitting on either side of their father, watching over his shoulder as a calloused finger traced the words on the page. Gradually, they'd lean more on his shoulders, their breathing would grow slower, and Sarah would have to lay aside her mending to lift one of the pair off to bed while Franklin carried the other, lest they both wake.

Both would be carried to the room they shared. Emeline would be tucked into her bed and Alfred into his. Sarah would smooth their nightclothes and tighten their blankets, watching as they unconsciously curled into their beds, and Franklin would blow out the candle that sat burning on the table between the children.

And Sarah would dream of running through the woods, finding fairies under leaves while unicorns stood just behind the trees. And Alfred would imagine great stone castles, of riding up on his horse to cheering crowds upon returning from his latest heroic deed. And more often than not, they found the other waiting for them, just over the nearest hill or a face in the back of the crowd, smiling and welcoming.

_V~-~-~V_

The Jones family also went to church on Sundays. Though Franklin didn't care much for religion (he recalled his parents, a Protestant and a Catholic, endlessly arguing and attending separate churches to the distain of the other, while he wondered how they managed to get married in the first place or if they were just too religious to divorce), Sarah's family had been deeply religious upon moving to the colonies, and vowed that their children should be the same.

Every week, Sarah was the first up. The house would be clean, a result of last-minute flurry the night before, and breakfast would already be prepared so that they didn't have to work on the holiest day of the week.

"Alfred! Emeline!" she would call, summoning her children to the main room. They would come, bleary-eyed and messy-haired, and she would set about bathing and changing the two into their Sunday clothes fit for church.

Alfred always wore a starched white shirt with long sleeves and a collar, buttoned all the way up. He would tug persistently at the offending neck cover that only led him to sweat, especially in the stiflingly still heat of their church. He also had black pants solely for Sunday wear, lest he tear the knees or permanently brown them as he did with all his other pants.

Emeline had a neat little dress and frock, equally stiff and disliked, but Sunday was the one day of the week that Sarah would hear no protests of any kind from her children.

"Children should be seen and not heard, remember?" she would reprimand, and they would shut up and be content with mouthing words and whispering at one another behind her back.

The family would walk the few blocks to the church, Franklin rambling like an old man about trekking seven miles to and from church every week (uphill both ways, of course) and Sarah constantly pulling Alfred and Emeline away from tempting mud puddles. Upon arriving, she would straighten their clothes one last time, remind them to be silent, and attempt in vain to flatten Alfred's ever-present cowlick.

Alfred never liked church. The morals were the same as those Sarah tried teaching them at home, and this whole idea of "one god" confused him, and didn't match up with the tales of nature spirits he'd heard first. The one time he'd ever mentioned this to Sarah, though, had ended with her reading him Bible stories every day for _weeks_. So he learned to be quiet and cope with the weekly dressing-up and cold meals to make her happy.

_V~-~-~V_

Sarah was proud to say that Alfred grew up in the Jones house a well-nurtured and loved boy.

But it soon became painfully obvious that "growing up" was not something Alfred did.

Emeline's ninth birthday came to the Jones house, making her the same age that the Joneses had guessed Alfred was when they first took him in. By all laws of nature and common sense, Alfred should be in his late teens or early twenties, and yet he looked barely older than Emeline. Whatever change had occurred (an inch or so of height, a slightly less-rounded face) was almost unnoticeable.

Franklin was the first to cite witchcraft.

"We don't know where he came from, Sarah. The boy will not speak of the time before we took him in. For all we know, he was cursed by some witch to remain a child, or is some sort of sorcerer himself!" Sarah had been appalled.

"Franklin Jones! He's our _son_, and you're saying he's been bewitched?"

"How else are we to explain it? Even Emeline is suspicious by now, and she loves him more than anyone else!"

In truth, Sarah had noticed the boy's apparent lack of aging years before, but had written it off as malnutrition or abuse during Alfred's younger years, or a lack of love and the will of God that had stunted his growth. She prayed often that her household would restore Alfred's health and allow him to age, but as the years passed, no such thing happened.

When Emeline turned seven, Sarah began keeping Alfred indoors, telling the neighbors that he was a sickly boy (when he was the liveliest she'd ever met) lest they grow suspicious as well.

She had explained to Alfred, speaking as if to a child even though she thought he should be at least through adolescence by now, that he couldn't go to market with her anymore and always had to play with Emeline during a certain set of hours. The boy's eyes, always bright and innocent, had grown calm and piercing, something that unnerved Sarah at the same time as assuring her that he was at least growing mentally.

"I understand, Auntie Sarah," he had said quietly, fixing her with a look that left no doubt in her mind that he knew exactly what she was doing.

Time passed to Emeline's ninth birthday, and she proved her father right by finally voicing what the whole family had been thinking to Alfred.

"Why don't you get older, Alfie?" she asked, her voice full of innocence, but there was a hint of the serious young woman she was to become under the surface. "I always remember you the same age."

Alfred stiffened at the question, his face going oddly blank for someone whose emotions were always easily read on the surface. "I am older, Emeline," he said quietly. "I've always been your big brother."

"But you look the same as me," she replied, "so how can you be my big brother?"

"Because I'm older than you."

Franklin stepped in. "How old _are_ you, Alfred?"

The slip was so sudden that Sarah wasn't sure she'd seen it at all. But for an instant, Alfred's blank face became that of someone who looked very, very lost. Turning away, the not-boy spoke, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

"I don't know."

_V~-~-~V_

1771

One day, during the fall after Emeline's tenth birthday, Alfred was seen by one of the neighbors. And the Joneses could do nothing but watch as the town of New Haven began to whisper of witchcraft. Soon, everything from the failure of flowers to bloom to an abundance of crows on the town hall's roof to the illness of a family member was blamed on, "that strange Alfred Jones."

Emeline came home one day in tears. "Ma…! Ma, they said Alfie— Alfie is a freak!"

Sarah pulled her daughter into a firm embrace. "Shh… Who said such mean things about Alfred?"

"The other children… and some of their ma's agreed with them!"

Sarah tsked, biting down a surge of worry inside. "Don't worry. They don't know Alfred like you and I do. If they did, they wouldn't be so mean…"

"But they said… they said he should leave! That he was just bringing trouble!" Emeline cried, burying her face in her mother's skirts. Sarah was about to reassure her that they meant no such thing when she caught sight of Alfred, stony-faced, watching from the doorway. He met Sarah's eyes, gave her a quick nod, and turned to go.

"Alfred—!"

Emeline lifted her head. "Alfie?" But he was already gone, the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor receding. "Alfie!"

That evening was the last Alfred spent in the Jones house.

_V~-~-~V_

It was a late November morning when Alfred F Jones announced he was leaving. Emeline had cried, Sarah had pleaded, and even Franklin had asked if it was really necessary. Looking more serious than she'd ever seen him, he replied,

"Yes. I've stayed here long enough. Much longer and the neighbors will start to alienate you as well."

"_That's_ why?" Sarah exclaimed. "We don't care what they say! You are _family_, Alfred Jones, and I intend to keep it that way!"

Alfred smiled, a sad little mockery of his usual cheery grin. "Thank you for that, Auntie Sarah. You certainly are family, which is why I can't put you in danger like this."

"Alfie…" Emeline sniffed, "don't go."

Alfred ruffled her hair like he always did, despite the fact that Emeline was the same height as him now. "_You_ are especially not allowed to cry, Em," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "After all, the hero always has to protect the ones he loves. And letting them cry would be no good at all."

Suddenly, Alfred reached beneath his shirt, pulling out a leather string Sarah hadn't seen since the day she first found him. It was a necklace, and tied to the end was a small wooden circle, an image of a moon and stars carved into it.

He placed it delicately around Emeline's neck. "This is my most precious possession. Nek gave it to me before she went west. It'll be your good-luck charm, like I'm always here to protect you. Can you keep it safe for me, Em?"

The girl nodded, still teary, and Alfred smiled softly at her. "Good. It's a promise, alright?"

"Don't go, Alfie. Please…" Emeline whispered. Alfred just smiled, and placed a small kiss on her forehead.

"Goodbye, Emeline."

With that, he turned and walked away, tiny puffs of dust appearing where he stepped. The Jones family, now of only three, watched the small figure leave their lives as strangely as he had come, his footprints disappearing under the tracks of others as he faded into the distance.

V/~-~-~/V

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><p>Phew! Teensy explanaition time!<br>_Wutahshuntar_- Algonquin name for a white person  
><em>Nek- <em>Algonquin word for mother  
>(I just Googled those, so if they're totally wrong and someone knows, I would very much appreciate it! You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find <em>any<em> Native American languages on the internet... as a result, he speaks the Algonquin language, because I _could_ find that one. They're a tribe that lived in the upstate New York and Ontario area, FYI.)  
>So... Alfred's life is off to an interesting start. Don't worry, Emeline will return eventually, but I won't say when~. Arthur will also have a few cameos, but the whole premise of this story is the lack of his influence and anyone to personify America, so he won't be a major character... unless I decide to make him so... hmmm...<p> 


	2. Boston

The arrival of chapter two!

Thank you very much to Quina and Divinehearts for reviewing the previous chapter. Less-than-threes for both of you! 3  
>Thank you also to LadyEnvy13, BlackRoseDraco, Frostbite122, milesae19, and again Divinehearts for your favorites and alerts.<br>I hope this chapter meets your expectations!

I disclaim, and own nothing.

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><p>_V~-~-~V_<p>

Two Years Later

It was December 17, 1773, and Alfred F Jones was back in Massachusetts. Wrapped up in two jackets, thick pants, his trusty brown boots, and a scarf, he made his way through the snowy streets of Boston.

He didn't really know why he'd returned. The last two years had been spent doing some farming across the nearby colonies, a bit in New York and eastern Pennsylvania. It didn't pay much, and he only stayed in one place as long as there were crops, so he never made any established relationships. After the Joneses, he'd promised himself he'd never make such an error again.

Though he did wonder why he'd grown all of a sudden, going from looking approximately eleven at the time he'd left the Jones house to looking somewhere in his late teens. He did get more work that way, but it was irritating to have to spend what little money he saved on new clothes every time he woke up a good inch and a half taller.

He had no difficulty finding work; in fact, nearly everyone he met was more than willing to take him in. He wrote it off as his natural charisma and the genuine friendliness of the American people, never really knowing exactly _what_ compelled everyone to open their homes to him with boundless generosity.

He'd settled down for the winter with a nice middle-aged man in Connecticut that he'd harvested pumpkins for the previous fall when suddenly, he felt the urge to go to Boston. When he'd told the man that, he'd just smiled and said, "Ah, the energy of youth!" and sent him off (with a new scarf from the missus, and a warning that it would be cold this time of year, as if he didn't already know that).

Alfred had made his way back by hitching rides on the backs of carriages and hay wagons, and walking from time to time. He slept under trees, unwilling to spend any of his precious little money on an inn when he knew the outdoors were perfectly safe (he thanked his early upbringing for that). After purposely taking the long way around New Haven, he found himself in increasingly busy city streets.

And so he arrived in Boston, altogether unsure of _what_ exactly he was supposed to be doing there, but knowing that he certainly was hungry. Making his way through the snow, much of which had been shoveled aside by locals, he pushed through the door of one of Boston's increasingly popular coffee houses.

Alfred adored coffee houses. Not only was their food usually pretty good, they were something people used to have open, American discussions, something that gave him a curious sense of pride. He was unsure of when the switch had occurred for most of the population of the colonies, when they started to really consider themselves "American" instead of English, but he knew he always had.

But this coffee shop went beyond his expectations. It seemed that half of Boston was crammed into the tiny wooden space, talking animatedly to one another. Unsure of what to do, Alfred made his way to the counter and asked the frazzled-looking lady for a cup of coffee and perhaps a breakfast pastry, handing her a few coins as he did so. She smiled at him, reminding him for a moment, with her blond bun and blue eyes, of Sarah.

When she returned, he ventured a question. "Excuse me, ma'am…"

She turned. "Yes? Is your coffee to bitter? I can add some sugar…"

"No, no, it's not that…" he replied with a shake of his head and a quick smile. "I was just wondering, what is everyone talking about? I just arrived this morning, so I'm afraid I really don't know—"

"Don't _know?_ Where've you been, son?"

Alfred turned, tilting his head slightly upwards to meet the eyes of the man sitting next to him. "I just got here today, from Connecticut."

"Well, we Yanks just one-upped those Brits, yes we did!" he cried, eliciting a rousing cheer from the others around him. He was clearly a regular, recognized by those around him, and his unusual appearance probably did little to help that. He wore scuffed overalls with a patched jacket over his shoulders, labeling him as a dock worker or manual laborer of some sort. Despite his age (presumably late thirties), he had a full head of thick brown hair, and on his square jaw was a few days' worth of stubble.

Still confused, Alfred ventured, "By doing what?"

"We dumped all their tea into the harbor, that's what! Serves them right and all, for taxing us all blind for their damn _leaves_…"

He continued ranting, gesturing wildly with his large, calloused hands, but Alfred began to tune him out, returning to his coffee.

"—revolution on their hands is where they're headed—"

Alfred nearly spat out his coffee. "Revolution?"

The man paused long enough to glance at him again. "That's what half the colonies are talking about! Of course there's some doubters, but people like us can't stand the tyranny of a good-for-nothing king forever, now can we?"

Nodding sagely, the man tapped Alfred on the nose. "You just watch, son, it'll come soon enough. Heck, you're young, you'll probably fight in it! Fight for American freedom, that's what you'll do!" With that, he slammed his empty cup down and left, waving at the other patrons of the coffee shop as he passed out the door.

The woman returned to collect his dishes, glancing sympathetically at Alfred as she did so. "He's always like that, prattling on about his _revolution_. Pay him no mind, dear."

"Do you really think that'll happen?" Alfred asked. "A revolution? Is that the only way to solve the problem?"

"I don't believe so," she replied, wiping the cup with an already stained rag, "but you know these menfolk, always loving to have their war plans. I would prefer it if England minded its own business, yes, but we _are_ a colony, and they _are_ at war elsewhere too, needing our funds. And they have always kept our people safe, wouldn't you agree? But you're too young to remember that, aren't you?" Suddenly, Alfred's coffee tasted bitter. She looked up from her wiping to smile.

"More sugar in that coffee, dear?"

"Yes, please."

_V~-~-~V_

In order to stay in Boston, Alfred found himself working for the lady at the coffee shop, earning a small amount of money in addition to room and board. Her name was Prudence Williams, a widow who had come to America as an indentured servant to pay off family debts in England and had worked her way up to becoming the owner of St George's. Her previous assistant, a teenage girl named Rose, had moved with her family to Philadelphia just a few weeks before.

Alfred came to love St George's, with its wood-paneled dining room and perpetual scent of coffee beans. He got all the latest news, local and sometimes international, from the patrons, some of whom sat around for hours a day. Prudence even taught him to bake the little pastries and meat pies she served.

Coffee though, still struck Alfred as tasting a lot like dishwater without _lots_ of sugar. Prudence often laughed at him for this, saying, "You work in a coffee shop, and still can't stand the taste of coffee? Thank God for that! Otherwise I'd be spending half a fortune on employee beverages!"

Instead of taking his lunch there, Alfred would walk down to the wharf and buy something from a market vendor, or stop in at a bakery, then sit at a dock and admire the large ships that came almost daily from the other colonies and occasionally from England.

It was on one such day when Alfred first saw a man who would later change his life, though it would take many years for him to realize it.

A ship from England was coming into port, larger and grander than any of the normal trading vessels. Alfred made his way through the crowd that had gathered to witness it docking, pushing towards the front. A gangplank was lowered, and out came a group of finely-dressed Englishmen, all of whom looked down at the assembled crowd with varying expressions of distaste.

But Alfred's eye was caught by one in particular. His jacket was longer, flashier than all the others who wore business coats, as was his hat with its large purple plume and knee-high buckled boots. Even from a distance Alfred could see his thick eyebrows, the sight of which oddly reminded him of caterpillars. He also looked a good thirty years younger than every other member of the party. He seemed to be a side feature of the group, and yet, Alfred felt drawn to him the same, inexplicable way he'd been drawn to Boston. The man turned, and to Alfred's shock, his eyes looked straight into his.

Alfred had time to notice his eyes were green before realizing what exactly he was doing. Embarrassed to be caught staring, he quickly averted his gaze and wormed back through the crowd. Perhaps someone at the coffee shop would know who the man was.

_V~-~-~V_

"Alfred Jones! You were supposed to return twenty minutes past!" Prudence was not pleased with Alfred's dawdling, and she was letting him know so, right in front of the rest of the lunch crowd.

"Sorry, ma'am," he replied. "A ship from England just arrived, full of officials. I got caught up in the crowd watching." He omitted the part about the strange young man with the thick eyebrows.

"I know how much you like ships, but that's no excuse for being late to work, young man!" Alfred blushed, resisting the urge to tell her he was definitely _not_ supposed to be addressed as a young man and the urge to tell whoever it was in the crowd that was snickering at his predicament to _please_ shut up.

"Sorry, ma'am," Alfred repeated. "It won't happen again, ma'am."

Prudence's gaze finally softened at the defeated look on the face of her young charge. "That it shall not, I trust. Now get to work, there's customers waiting."

Alfred hurried off into the kitchen, while Prudence shouted behind him at the patrons, "Show's over! Sorry for the disturbance!"

Later that evening, Alfred once again saw the loud man he'd met his first day in Boston. When he approached him to ask for his order, he saw a spark of recognition on his face.

"Ah, the country boy!" he declared loudly, slapping Alfred on the back. "Made a place for yourself in the city, eh? Excellent, excellent!"

"It's nice to see you again, sir," Alfred replied, taking the man's order for black coffee. When he returned, the man was already talking to someone else at a neighboring table. Loudly, of course. It was abundantly clear that this man never spoke in anything less than a shout, and couldn't do anything without slamming, or stomping, or banging something in his immediate vicinity. Absently, Alfred wondered if the man's work had damaged his hearing.

"Here you are, sir," Alfred said, setting the cup down and making his way back to the kitchens, but the man's voice stopped him.

"What did you say your name was, boy?"

"I didn't say, but it's Alfred Jones," Alfred replied, turning back to face the man as he spoke.

"Cheeky, boy," the man said, but he smiled. "Thomas Mather's my name." He extended a hand, which Alfred took, fearing for his bones as the other man squeezed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred."

"You as well, sir," Alfred replied, shaking his hand loose behind his back.

"My niece, Rose, used to work here, you know," Thomas continued. "I developed a habit of coming here in my free time, and I guess I haven't broken it yet."

"I'm sure Ms Williams is happy to have such a loyal customer, sir." Thomas laughed.

"You look like you have a question," he said, his gray eyes twinkling.

Alfred paused. "As a matter of fact… I was wondering, do you know anything about the men that came on the British ship today?"

Thomas snorted derogatorily. "A bunch of stuffed-up delegates is all. All they want is more money from us, robbing us blind is what they're doing. I watched them come in, that I did, and saw their ugly, self-important expressions for myself."

"Actually, I was wondering specifically about one… he was younger, perhaps in his early twenties, and looked a bit out of place in the group."

"Indeed, I know the one you mean," Thomas replied, "and to be true, he did look strange, and I've seen him on delegations before. But I'm afraid I can't help you in terms of who he is, that I can't."

"Oh." Alfred was a bit disappointed, but he supposed he could find the strange man some other way, if he really did come on other delegations. "Thank you anyway, Mr. Mather."

"No problem. Do me a favor though, Alfred. If you do find out who he is, I'd like to know. Indeed, you've piqued my curiosity."

"I will, sir." Alfred took his leave, returning to the kitchens to resume work before Prudence could come out and yell at him for taking so long and bothering customers.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred was at his usual spot on the pier a few days later. It was a lovely day, bright and sunny, with a gentle breeze coming off the water. He could hear the dockhands chatting loudly a bit to his right while he munched on a ham sandwich Prudence, in a fit of generosity, had decided to make for him.

A seagull landed beside him, eyeing Alfred's sandwich with beady black eyes. He smiled, and broke off a crust, holding it out towards the bird in his palm. It cautiously studied the offering for a moment, sizing up the possible threat that was Alfred, before closing the gap and snatching the bread in one quick motion before flapping madly backwards. Alfred just smiled at it, wondering how many other people could get seagulls to eat out of their hands. Ever since he'd first met Lulu's mother, he'd been aware of his way with animals. Still preoccupied with watching the gull, he was startled when he heard a voice from behind.

"A lovely day, isn't it?"

Spinning abruptly, the first thing Alfred noticed about the owner of the voice was the oversized eyebrows. Matching that with the rest of his appearance (green eyes, blond hair, and strangely flamboyant clothes) he realized this was the strange young man from the British delegation.

"Ah—y-yes, it is a nice day," Alfred stammered in reply.

"You come here daily. Why?" Very straightforward, Alfred thought. His voice definitely had a thick British accent, but it was laced with something he recognized hearing from sailors at the docks.

"I like watching the boats come in. And I work nearby, so I come here during my lunch." The man raised one thick eyebrow, but accepted Alfred's explanation. Suddenly, he kicked his boots off and sat next to Alfred, dangling his bare feet off the edge of the pier.

"Aye—" The man paused, flushing slightly at what was apparently a slip. "Yes, I like the ships as well, and the sea. Sometimes it seems like the only thing that's the same between here and England."

Hesitating briefly, Alfred asked, "Do you miss England, when you come here?"

"More than anything," came the immediate reply, but the man had a strange little smile on his face as he said this.

"Do you have family over there?"

The man shook his head. "I don't have a family. I just love my country." His green eyes took on a wistful look. "Have you ever been to England?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, I've lived here my whole life."

"That would explain your atrocious Yankee accent."

"Hey! My accent is perfectly normal, thank you!" Alfred exclaimed, indignant.

"See, all you Yankees have butchered the lovely English language so much you don't even realize your error anymore," the man replied, grinning. Suddenly, he turned to look at Alfred.

"What's your name?"

"Alfred Jones. What's yours?"

"Eng— Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"You came with the English delegation, didn't you?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded. "What do you do for them? Honestly, you seem a bit young to be a politician…"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this from someone clearly years my junior!" Arthur laughed. "Yes, I came with the delegation, and yes, I am a politician, despite my appearance."

"I don't think I could be a politician. Too much paperwork," Alfred said, making a face. "But I do want to be something other than a waiter in a coffee shop…"

"What do you want to be?" He seemed to be genuinely interested.

Alfred blushed. "I don't really know… but someone who can protect people, or make people happy. I think I'd like that." He waited for Arthur to laugh, but the other man just smiled.

"I think you would do a smashing good job."

"You think so?"

"Of course you would."

"Thanks, Artie."

"Don't call me that!"

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred didn't see Arthur again, and a week later, he heard from Thomas that the delegation had left. He did tell Thomas that he'd met the young man, and found that his name was Arthur Kirkland. "Excellent job, my boy!" had been his only reply, before he'd started off again on another one of his tax-based rants.

It was a little over a year since Alfred had started work at St George's when one of those inexplicable urges came again. He tried his best to ignore it, but no matter what he did, he felt the need to go to Philadelphia. He mentioned this to Prudence one day, and she was surprisingly supportive.

"That's where Rose and her family went," she said. "It's a lovely city, from what I hear, almost as nice as Boston." Her only concern was his lack of knowledge of what he was going to do once he got there. "You were lucky here, but that good fortune might not last all the way to Philadelphia."

But the pull didn't stop, and it was with increasing agitation that Alfred reminded Prudence that he _needed_ to get to Philadelphia, until one day Thomas overheard.

"I could write you a letter of recommendation for my brother, Josiah," he said. "He's Rose's father, and runs a printing company. I bet he would be willing to take on an apprentice, that I do. Would you be interested?"

"Really? You could do that for me?" Alfred cried, ecstatic, causing Thomas to chuckle.

"Of course! Anything for my favorite coffees shop's best employee!" Catching sight of Prudence's glare from the kitchen door, he hastily amended, "Of course, second best to the amazing cook."

"That means worst, you know."

"Hush, boy. Do you want that letter or not?"

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Hooray for the completion of chapter two! Thank you for reading!<p>

So, on to Philadelphia for Alfred for more historic events, which you hopefully should already have figured out if you know _anything_ about American history. I realize Alfred didn't arrive in Boston _quite_ in time for the Boston Tea Party, but hey, Boston was a pretty important spot in the year that followed as well.  
>And Arthur got a cameo! I told you he'd show up sometime. He's dressed the way he is because, without a cute little brother to mellow him out, he's still running (or sailing) around like a pirate. I hope you understand the logic behind that.<p>

Chapter 3 has been written, but I'll wait a few days to post it, I think, for final edits and whatnot. Please look forward to it! (^_^)/


	3. Philadelphia

Hello again! It's time for chapter 3!  
>Alfred's arrived in Philadelphia, and historic events await!<p>

Thank you very much to PrussianGurl, my sole reviewer for chapter 2. You're amazing too!  
>Thank you also to Ashynarr, jka039, Lilyflower1987, Sora Moto, mangosmoothie1, Blood of the Dawn, and SpiritMusician for your favorites and alerts. You don't know how happy it makes me whenever one of those lovely emails appears in my inbox~! \(^_^)

I disclaim, and own nothing. Please enjoy!

* * *

><p>_V~-~-~V_<p>

Little over a month later, Alfred F Jones found himself standing outside a rather important-looking building in Philadelphia, dressed in the slightly-too-large nice clothes of Josiah Mather, and receiving many curious looks from passerby.

His arrival in Philadelphia had gone well. Finding the Mather printing business had been simple, and the family had been very nice so far…

_As with everywhere else he'd traveled, Alfred found people in Philadelphia to be surprisingly accommodating, kindly giving directions to the address Thomas had left him with, and even offering to take him to his destination. Not wanting to be a bother, Alfred had refused, but nonetheless people would walk with him for a block or so, just to make sure he got where he needed to be._

_Standing outside the printing shop, letter in hand, Alfred knocked tentatively. Moments later, the door was opened, and left Alfred staring at the prettiest girl he'd ever seen._

_Long red hair, green eyes, looking somewhere around his physical age. She'd welcomed him in, introducing herself as Rose Mather, and had led him to meet her parents, Josiah and Brita. He'd successfully untied his tongue enough to introduce himself and hand over the letter. Josiah, a slightly portly older man, had read it thoughtfully._

"_From what my brother writes about you, you're far too qualified to be just a printer's assistant, that you are," he said, and Alfred had to stifle a laugh at the sound of Thomas's speech pattern coming from his brother's mouth. "Furthermore, I don't really have the space for another employee at the moment…"_

_Josiah glanced up at Alfred's face, and immediately tried to amend his statement. "Not that I wouldn't be glad to have you, boy, but your talents could be useful elsewhere! As a matter of fact, I know just the man… an old acquaintance from the printing business, that he is…"_

Walking through the doors of the rather magnificent building, Alfred expected to be intimidated, or at least nervous, but he felt strangely calm. There was a sense of _right_ about the place that he couldn't explain, as if his sole purpose in Philadelphia was to be here. Alfred stopped a passing man wearing a suit. "Excuse me, but do you know where I can find a Benjamin Franklin?"

The man gave him an odd look, but directed him anyway to a small office on the second floor of the building. Entering, Alfred came face-to-face with a balding, gray-haired man wearing spectacles, sitting behind a desk piled high with papers. He gave Alfred a severe stare, but then shocked him by smiling.

"Ah! You must be the boy Josiah spoke of!" he said, rising to meet Alfred.

Hastily, Alfred bowed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Alfred Jones, and I'm told I can find work here as your assistant."

"Normally, I don't hire anyone," Franklin said, "and I wasn't really planning on an exception." Alfred felt his heart sinking. "Why do you wish to work for me, young Mr. Jones? Surely you could find an acceptable apprenticeship elsewhere, even in Boston. But you chose to come to Philadelphia. For what purpose?"

Alfred paused, wondering if this man would accept anything but honesty. Meeting the other's gray eyes, he decided that this Mr. Franklin definitely wouldn't. "Truthfully, I don't know, sir. I was working in a coffee shop in Boston, but then… I just felt a need to be in Philadelphia, like something big is going to happen here. I can't quite explain it, but this building… gives off that same feeling. I think I need to be here, and you seem to be my best chance of that, sir."

Franklin's eyes widened, but then his gaze sharpened. "An inexplicable need?" he mused. "Tell me, Alfred, were you born in the colonies?"

"Yes, sir. I've always lived here."

"Have you gone anywhere before, due to these 'needs'?"

"I went to Boston on a whim, sir. I'd been farming in Connecticut before that."

His eyes narrowed again. "How old are you, Alfred?"

Alfred felt his heart skip a beat, but replied, "Nineteen by my best guess, sir."

"Your best guess? Do you not know your proper age?"

"No, sir. I was found by my parents at a young age," he said, omitting the fact that he'd actually looked nine at the time, and hadn't exactly been _young,_ per se.

"Parents?"

"I was raised by Franklin and Sarah Jones of New Haven, sir."

The other man leaned sat back in his chair, readjusting his spectacles with a satisfied expression, leaving Alfred feeling like he'd just passed some sort of test.

"If you ever have these inexplicable feelings again, would it be alright to inform me?"

Slightly surprised at the man's interest, Alfred agreed. "That wouldn't be a problem, sir."

"Then welcome to Philadelphia, Mr. Alfred Jones."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred got used to his job as Mr. Franklin's only assistant very quickly. He would walk Rose daily to her job at a nearby coffee shop, having gotten over his initial awkwardness around the pretty redhead, then head to his workplace. They would chat about anything on their minds, and occasionally she'd make him lunch. It was a comfortable routine, just as his work soon became.

After he got over his initial reaction that Franklin Jones was who people were referring to when they said, "Mr. Franklin," he found that he was very comfortable working for the man. However, just because he was comfortable didn't mean it was easy.

As the only assistant, he was working sunup to sundown every day. Benjamin Franklin turned out to be even more important than Alfred had guessed, one of the only colonial diplomats sent to England and France. Alfred remembered telling Arthur Kirkland of the Oversized Eyebrows that he would hate to be a politician, with all the paperwork involved, and he had a good laugh at the irony of it all.

But in addition to the burden on Alfred, Ben was a former printer and current eccentric inventor. Not all of his creations worked as he hoped, but Alfred got used to him bursting into his room at all hours of the day, spouting something about a new idea.

Not only was he eccentric, but when he'd realized that Alfred had little to no formal education, he took it upon himself to tutor him whenever he had the time. When he wasn't around, sometimes he convinced a man by the name of Jefferson to do a lesson or two, but Alfred preferred Ben's lessons to those of the quiet redhead.

Benjamin Franklin also had a theory, one that he shared only with Mr. Jefferson. It was for this reason alone that he had him tutor the boy, in order to give him an unexpected second monitor. During one of his lessons in April of 1775, Alfred abruptly gasped and passed out. He woke up moments later, confused as to why he was laying on the floor, but that moment all but confirmed Franklin's theory.

Alfred F Jones was definitely more than he seemed.

_V~-~-~V_

Despite working for Franklin, Alfred continued to live at the Mather's household, paying an extraordinarily inexpensive weekly rent with the wages he got from Ben. Josiah and Brita were kind, and Rose was, for no other acceptable adjective, beautiful. And curious, with a completely unexpected fiery personality.

"What's it like working for Benjamin Franklin? He's very famous, right? Surely, he has a lot of important things to do?"

Alfred replied, "He does have an awful lot of paperwork, but I don't think he's all that used to having an assistant yet. He does most himself."

They would often talk late into the night about the current affairs of the colonies, something Alfred got to know a lot about working beside Benjamin Franklin, and occasionally about their dreams.

"I want to be a doctor of medicine, but mother says such a thing isn't possible for girls, because girls are meant to, 'keep house,' and 'cook and clean'." She spoke the examples in a mocking tone, sneering out the window in a way Brita would surely never allow.

"I think you could do it."

Rose turned, looking surprised at Alfred's answer. Alfred blushed, then elaborated.

"I mean, you have the determination, and are one of the smartest people I know… so I bet you could do it."

"You think so, Alfie?"

Alfred winced, the memory of another voice replacing Rose's. "Please, don't call me that."

"But do you really think I could be a doctor?"

"Of course!"

Rose had grinned broadly, and then wrapped Alfred in a hug that left him even more red-faced than before. "Thank you! I'll definitely try my best, that I will!"

_V~-~-~V_

The building soon to be known as Independence Hall was dark as Alfred made his way through the corridors, holding a candle aloft for light. Ben had sent him to find Jefferson, who apparently was killing himself with overwork, and convince him to get some sleep.

Alfred yawned, wondering how Jefferson's sleeping habits had managed to get _him_ woken from a perfectly good (if a tad strange) dream about rabbits and plumed hats.

He arrived outside Jefferson's office door, unsurprised to find a light shining through the cracks at the edges. Alfred knocked, hoping the redhead wouldn't be too mad. While he was usually quiet, if you tripped his temper he was a sight to see.

"Mr. Jefferson? Sir? May I come in?"

Alfred took the muffled reply from within as a yes and cracked open the door to see Jefferson bent over a pile of papers at his desk.

"Mr. Jefferson, sir, Mr. Franklin thinks you should really get some sleep. You have been looking tired lately."

"What do states have the right to do, Alfred?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do states have the right to do? Free states?"  
>Alfred wracked his brains, hoping for a right answer. "Er… trade, I suppose… and make alliances?"<p>

"Good, good. Anything else?" Jefferson replied, scribbling something down on the paper before him.

"Er… declare war, I guess."

"And peace, Alfred. Don't forget peace."

"Yes, that too," Alfred agreed, sighing. "But really, sir, is asking these sorts of questions really what you should be doing? It's past midnight!"

"One more thing, Alfred…"

"Yes, sir?"

"What is the most important quality of a human? Something you would defend at all costs, first and foremost?"

"_Uncle Franklin? Why do heroes save people?"_

"_Why do you ask, Alfred?"_

"_Even if they don't know people, they save them… why?"_

_A smile, and a hand ruffling his hair. "Because saving them is the honorable thing to do, of course. What kind of hero would let people be hurt when he could do something to stop it?"_

"Honor, sir."

Jefferson looked up from his work, his expression one of slight surprise. Then he smiled and bent back over his paper to resume writing. "Honor… our sacred honor… you're completely correct, Alfred."

_V~-~-~V_

Jefferson did go to bed after that, and the next morning he produced what would later be considered one of the most extraordinary documents in American history.

Alfred was ecstatic.

"I can't believe we're finally going through with it! Declaring independence… it's brilliant! England will have to accept it, I mean, we have been fighting for over a year now, but this will give the people such confidence it's extraordinary! We have a country, a real country to fight for! The Unites States of America… amazing!"

Benjamin Franklin watched this rant with amusement. "Of course, that's only if we can get the rest of the people here to agree. Not all the representatives approve of Jefferson's ideas, after all."

"Like what?" Alfred asked, calming down slightly. "He's brilliant, they should just send it over to the king right now…"

"Many of the southern delegates have a strong disapproval for his anti-slavery clause, as well as his proposed methods of running a new government," Ben said calmly. "A new country has many problems to iron out if we want to be the sort of revolutionary democracy that the people want."

"But you'll get it right in the end! America will be an amazing country, the land of the free, with no bothersome kings or foreign taxes! Someday, we'll be the best!"

The enthusiasm of Franklin's assistant was contagious, and after much bickering and compromising, the final draft of the Declaration of Independence was signed at Independence Hall, Philadelphia, on July 4, 1776. The following morning, Alfred woke to discover he'd had yet another overnight growth spurt.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred was re-tailoring his clothes a few days later when Ben found him.

"Alfred! I was looking for you!"

Smiling, Alfred set his work aside. "It would seem that you've found me, sir."

"Indeed I have, my boy…" Noticing the clothes, he asked, "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion, sir, I just grew a bit. The ankles of my pants got a little short, so I figured I'd let out the hems."

Ben's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles in the strange way they did when he knew something Alfred didn't, but he was pretty used to such a look by now.

"You can't get the lovely miss at home to do so?" Ben asked teasingly, smiling as Alfred turned a rather alarming shade of scarlet.

"Rose is not the 'young miss at home'!" he exclaimed. "And why would I bother her when I can do it perfectly fine myself!"

"I see you can," Ben said, leaning over to inspect his work. "Who taught you to sew?"

"My Aunt Sarah," Alfred replied. "She maintained that it was a useful skill for everyone, and unfortunately, Uncle Franklin, agreed, so I had to sit through lessons with my sister."

"A sister?" Ben looked surprised. "You've never mentioned a sister!"

Alfred shifted uncomfortably, as he did whenever he remembered her, because it inevitably brought up the memory of leaving. "… Her name is Emeline. She'd be fourteen or fifteen by now."

"Charming, charming…" Ben said softly, trailing off for a moment before once again addressing Alfred. "The new government proposed to make me the first ambassador to France of the United States of America."

"Ambassador? That's fantastic, sir!"

"Indeed," Ben replied. "Of course, I would still have room for an assistant, if you wish to join me."

Just as the words of assent were about to pass Alfred's lips, he suddenly wondered how he would feel elsewhere, and an empty feeling of dread settled over him. Leaving America was unimaginable, not now, when so much was going on! And he'd never expected, nor had the desire to leave the colonies. He wanted very much to say yes, but something told him that wasn't the correct answer.

Alfred closed his mouth, feeling unsettled. How had he ever thought, even for a moment, that he could leave? "I'm sorry, sir…" he said slowly, "but I honestly can't imagine leaving America, even temporarily."

The knowing twinkle was back. "Yes, I quite understand. Long ship voyages across the Atlantic are most disagreeable with some, myself included."

"Yes… disagreeable ship voyages…" Alfred muttered.

"Out of curiosity, what would you do here?" Ben asked.

"I don't know. Maybe I'd take Josiah up on that apprenticeship offer…"

"There is a war going on, you know," Ben said. "Thus far, you've only experienced the political side, but there are many young men dying every day for American freedom. I'm sure you can feel it, but it's a cause that impassions many." He gave another of his enigmatic smiles. "I'll leave you to ponder that, young Mr. Jones."

_V~-~-~V_

"Have you decided?"

Alfred was working on some of Ben's paperwork. He'd slowly been trusted with more over his time as Ben's assistant, and as a result often stayed up just as Jefferson had done.

"Not yet, sir," Alfred said. He hadn't turned down Ben's offer to remain his assistant through his job as ambassador outright, though he was leaning on the side of denying it. Rose, however, was adamant about him taking the job, telling him it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Alfred chose not to enlighten her on the probable length of his lifetime and let her think that.

Eyes twinkling in a different fashion now, Ben said, "On another subject, July 4th will forever be celebrated as the birth of a new nation." Alfred nodded absently, wondering where his employer was going with this change in topic. "You are in need of a birthday, aren't you, Alfred?"

"Not in _need_ of, no, but it's true that I don't really have one… we'd just celebrated it on November 15th at the Jones's, the day Aunt Sarah found me…"

"Why don't you make your birthday July 4th?"

Alfred looked up, shocked. "But that would be presumptuous of me, sir! Making my birthday the same day as the birth of our country!"

"You've been around longer than the country, and have no real birthday. I feel like it's a justifiable decision." Alfred still looked scandalized, so Ben decided to leave him alone for a bit. "When you've decided, do tell me."

Alfred did give it some thought, and he decided the day, July 4th, had the same feeling of _right_ as Boston and Philadelphia had, and by now, Alfred wasn't one to question his instincts. In 1776, Alfred celebrated his belated birthday in secret. The following year, he would arrive sheepishly at Ben's doorstep on July 4th, asking the man to please wish him a happy birthday and good luck, because he was turning down his offer and enlisting in the Continental Army.

_V~-~-~V_

"The _Army?_"

Alfred resisted the urge to cover his ears, but _really_, Rose's voice was shrill. Instead, he smiled sheepishly and held up his palms in a placating gesture.

"Calm down Rosie, it's not like I'm joining the _British_ army…"

"_Of course_ you're not! There's no one more patriotic on this _continent_ than you, Alfred Jones! But can't you be patriotic in a _diplomatic _setting rather than running off to get yourself _killed? _Are you_ stupid? And I will most certainly not calm down!"_

This was why he had saved her for last. Ben had wished him luck, Josiah had said he'd always known such a thing would happen eventually, and Brita had promised to bake him some special cakes before he left. But Rose was another matter. In the last year and a half, she'd become mighty protective over the adopted member of her family.

"I have to go, Rosie. It's like when I came to Philadelphia, I can't explain it, but I need to be there. I am the right age, after all." Not. But he wasn't about to let her know he was anything more than twenty.

"What about your illness?" she shot back, making Alfred wince. It was true that he'd been feeling almost perpetually under the weather ever since he'd collapsed during Jefferson's lesson, his only respite being the day the Declaration was signed.

"It's getting better now. I told you it would go away someday, and besides, if I really was sick the Army wouldn't accept me."

"But you're safe here, Alfred." She was tearing up, which made Alfred nervous. An angry Rose he could deal with, but a _crying _one was a whole different kettle of fish.

"I'll be fine! I'll become a hero for thousands of American citizens, and come back here so you can congratulate me afterwards!" Rose gave a hollow laugh.

"You don't get it, do you?" She reached up, roughly yanking his head down.

And she kissed him. Square on the mouth, her fingers wrapped around the hair at the back of his head.

Alfred had a moment to be shocked before he felt his cheeks flame.

"What—you—what?"

"You're an idiot, Alfred F Jones," came the muttered reply. Rose's face matched her hair as well. "Just don't… Make sure you come back, okay? Promise you'll come back?" Alfred smiled.

"Promise."

He didn't mention his uncertainty that he could.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Another chapter done... I really don't like writing romance. I do, however, sometimes enjoy reading it, so I put a bit in (I hope it's okay). Plus, I like tragedy and angst, so expect some more of that later. It is inevitable, you know, when your main character is immortal for reasons he can't explain.<p>

Also, _woah_ for writing historic events. In the scene where Thomas Jefferson is up too late, he's writing the last paragraph of the Declaration of Independance, from where I got the lines. I had to memorize it in fifth grade, and curse my brain for still remembering. I'm sure it's taking up space that could be used for other more practical things. Ben Franklin also did become ambassador to France, but I figured Alfred can't leave just yet. He's got a war to fight, and all.

...Which brings me to Chapter 4, which will concern itself with the Revolutionary War, and will be the longest yet. The war will be split into two parts, and the rating will go up for Part II for language and blood. Obviously. It's a war, what do you expect? Also, expect some more Nation cameos next chapter (I bet you can guess who~)!

Thank you for reading, and if you have time, please let me know how I'm doing with a comment or review!


	4. Revolution: Part I

Hello, I'm back for chapter 4~!  
>First off, an apology. I meant to post this yesterday, but I went to see the remastered <em>Titanic<em> in 3D for the 100th anniversary of the sinking. It was a great movie, but very long, and it was too late to do anything when I got home. So, sorry for my lateness, but I think you can forgive me, yes?

Thank you very much to ShippudenFlower, Maiya123, WeAllFlyHigh, and Divinehearts for your reviews!  
>Thank you as well to HonestLiar33, gemstarre, ScatteredSands, Animateia, and again to ShippudenFlower, Maiya123, and WeAllFlyHigh for your alerts and favorites!<p>

**Just as a note, for this chapter and the next the rating goes temporarily to T due to the language of certain people and blood,** because hey, this is a war. I'm not going to bother to change the story rating as a whole, so this is your warning.  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

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><p>The Army, Alfred soon found, wasn't all it was cracked up to be.<p>

Sure, he had his fair share of skirmishes, when the smoke from the muskets and cannons was so thick you could barely breathe and the sound of a drum was the only thing you could rely on. The adrenaline rush he got from the simple _thrill_ of being embroiled in battle was something amazing, and those around him all seemed just as excited.

But in between all that were exhausting marches through all manners of weather (honestly, he could now see why nobody _ever_ tried fighting during the winter), filthy conditions and illness seeming to strike down more people than the battles did. As Alfred watched, the Army fluctuated between growth from new recruits and decline after battles as soldiers died, deserted, or went mad.

The front though, was where Alfred needed to be. He couldn't imagine doing what Rose had hoped he would, staying in Philadelphia and working in diplomacy, even if he still didn't feel his strongest.

No matter what he'd told Rose, his perpetual illness had followed him to the battlefield, resulting in coughing fits and stabs of pain that seemed to return often, especially when he was fighting, causing Alfred to wonder if he was really being any help to the cause at all.

Sitting alone in his tent, deep in his morose thoughts, he didn't even register that someone else had entered.

"Excuse me? Are you, er… Jones?"

Turning in surprise, Alfred met the nervous-looking face of another young man. He had slightly long, curly blond hair and brown eyes, and seemed rather young to be in the military.

Finding his voice, Alfred replied, "Oh, yeah. Yes, I'm Alfred Jones."

Relief spread over the boy's face. "Thank goodness! I thought I'd walked into the wrong tent for a moment, and how embarrassing would _that_ have been, I mean on my first day here and everything, just getting off on the wrong foot with some random guy who probably would have kicked me out and then hated me forever because of one little mistake, and that would be so humiliating—"

"Hey."

The boy broke off. "Yes?"

"You're rambling," Alfred said evenly, causing the boy to flush a deep shade of red.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I mean, I just sort of do that when I get nervous I guess, my older sisters and my parents always told me it's a silly habit that I should break but I don't know how to stop—"

Alfred gave up and threw his boot at him, noting the satisfying thud it made upon contacting the other.

"Ow! That hurt!" the boy whined, hands clapped on his head.

"Then be quiet," Alfred said, trying to sound strict, but his words didn't have much of a bite. Sighing resignedly, he asked, "What's your name?"

The boy straightened on his knees and awkwardly saluted. "Zachariah Wetherby, sir!"

Alfred lifted an eyebrow. "Zachariah Wetherby?"

The other flushed and looked away. "It's a common English name, you know."

"It doesn't suit you at all."

"I know… I don't really like it… so you can call me Zach! Much less formal, don't you agree?" His grin was almost blinding in intensity, but definitely genuine. Alfred smiled back.

"It's nice to meet you, Zach."

_V~-~-~V_

Despite the rocky initial meeting, Alfred soon found that he liked Zach. He was energetic and almost perpetually happy, if somewhat of a worrywart. And he did worry about everything, from the serious things like battle to the silly things like whether his belongings were packed properly in his satchel. He seemed to alternate from being meticulous and hyper-observant to daydream-y and a bit of a klutz. In an endearing (if somewhat irritating at first) fashion, of course.

The boy (for with his childish face and attitude, Alfred couldn't help but think him anything but) had yet to be involved in any real battles because he'd had the misfortune of enlisting in late autumn, and their regiment hadn't been involved in any conflicts between then and winter, when all armies took a break and focused on surviving the bitter New England cold instead. He continued to share a tent with Alfred throughout their many marches, all the way until they reached Valley Forge.

Alfred decided that this was the craziest of his _right_ places yet. It was bitterly cold, none of them had proper clothing or food, and the camp was disorganized at the best of times. It was also the first _right_ place he hadn't needed to go out on his own to reach, and thankfully so, because deserting your regiment just to find another didn't fly in the Continental Army.

He and Zach stuck together, because sharing body heat was perhaps the only way to survive.

Unfortunately, just because it was cold didn't excuse them from performing military duties, and it was well-known that their commander, a man named Davis, had a strong dislike for, "that bumbling idiot," or Zach. It wasn't the boy's fault; the commander just made him extremely nervous. Even so, whenever it was time for some pointless task to get done, Davis called on Zach (and by association, Alfred) to do it.

"Wetherby! Jones! Get your lazy asses over here and peel these potatoes!"

Alfred grumbled under his breath, but Zach's hands started shaking. "Oh, Alfred, what if I screw up again?" he moaned. "Remember the last time he tried to get me to empty the rabbit trap and the little guy got away, and the time before that when I accidentally spilled water on the fire when they'd just got it going, and before that when I tripped into Harris's tent and accidentally broke one of the poles, and before that—"

"Just shut up and move, or we'll get yelled at worse," Alfred retorted, a bit harsher than he meant to. Zach looked at him with his patented kicked puppy eyes. Alfred gave. In a gentler tone, he said, "All you have to do is mimic me, and don't think about Davis. It's just peeling potatoes after all, not anything difficult."

However, it soon became clear that shaking, frozen hands didn't peel potatoes well, and as a result even Alfred did a poor job. Davis came over to sneer, picking up a skin from the barrel.

"You call this peeled? There's much more meat on here that you're wasting with your incompetence! You two just got put in charge of after-dinner cleanup _by yourselves_, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred muttered, and Zach managed a nod. Davis stalked off, leaving the two in peace with the remainder of the potatoes.

It was Zach that broke the silence. "Hey, Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Potatoes don't have meat…" Alfred snorted.

"Of course they don't. They're potatoes, not deer."

"Then what exactly is all this?" Zach asked, holding up a handful of white potato. "I've never harvested any, because we grow mostly corn on our farm…"

Alfred contemplated the question for a moment, feeling like an idiot because he _had_ harvested potatoes before. "You know… I have no idea."

_V~-~-~V_

The camp hadn't actually _had _a dining tent before the Prussian commander, von Steuben, had showed up. When it was just the American commanders, anything went in the camp. Thanks to the Prussian, organization was better and conditions were more sanitary. Zach even mentioned that the man had written a whole _book_ describing correct army camp setup, _and_ he was a Baron, so Alfred assumed the guy must know what he was talking about. Plus, he swore loudly in German and French, and hired some guy to translate his cursing into English, which the Americans found rather intimidating. It was whipping the soldiers into shape, and the whole camp was looking a lot better.

However, the same couldn't be said for the weather. As they got further into winter, the temperature had a tendency to drop abruptly after the sun went down at Valley Forge, even if there were clouds in the sky all day long. As a result, the cleaning of the dining tent had to take place very quickly after sundown, or the water would freeze in the buckets and on the rags.

"Cheer up, Alfred!" Zach said with a grin as he carried the water pails towards the tent. The other soldiers had all cleared out already, and the pair had gotten their fair share of sympathetic glances from the rest of their company, who would definitely _not_ want to share their predicament.

"It's only cleaning! We'll have it done soon enough!" Zach continued, his cheery demeanor an abrupt turnaround from his earlier nervousness.

"If that idiotic Davis doesn't show up," Alfred muttered, "and if our hands don't fall off from frostbite."

"Don't be like that," Zach chided. "We'll finish before any of that happens!" Still, his cheer didn't really do much to boost Alfred's mood.

The closer they got to the dining tent, the more Alfred noticed a pair of voices. Both spoke English with different accents, so it took longer than usual for him to get a grasp on their conversation.

"—silly _Americains_ and zeir people do not know how to do _anything_ correctly. Zeir food here is also awful, almost as bad as _Angleterre's_. And zere are no pretty ladies in zese camps, not like during _my_ wars."

"And there's not enough beer. What kind of army doesn't have enough beer?"

"Zere is not enough beer in ze _world_ for ze likes of you, _chèr _Gilbert_."_

Their conversation devolved into a fit of arguing as Alfred and Zach entered the tent. The pair was sitting at a far table, wearing two different uniforms, but both had so many decorations Alfred was certain they were officers of some kind. Motioning for Zach to be quiet, they began their cleaning on the farthest table from the pair, trying to be unobtrusive. Who knew, they might report them for being disruptive or something, despite the fact they were the only ones left in an empty tent.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred studied the two further. The one facing him, with the harsher-sounding accent, had strangely pale skin and silver hair, and from where Alfred stood it looked like he had red eyes, but he wrote it off as a trick of the dim lighting in the tent. He couldn't see the face of the other (the one who replaced all his th's with z's), but he saw blond hair pulled into a ponytail beneath his large hat, one that reminded him very much of Arthur's from the British delegation in Boston.

As they cleaned, Alfred noticed Zach was stealing glances at the strange duo as well. "Who do you think they are?" the other boy whispered.

"Dunno, but they look pretty important. I wonder how they know each other, being from different armies and all," Alfred replied, also in hushed tones. The two continued to watch, and Alfred nearly dropped his pail of water when a tiny yellow bird came flying through the tent flaps. He was even more shocked when the little bird, who appeared to be carrying a paper, went right over to the silver-haired one and landed on his shoulder, causing the man to grin.

"Gilbird! You're back, little buddy! Have you got my reply from Fritz?"

The little bird cheeped in what Alfred would swear was an answer, causing the man to stroke his head with a finger.

"What do you think of the awesome me's message system, Francis? Pretty cool, huh? _Kesesesese…!"_

The Frenchman laughed as well and said, "Writing to _ton roi beux?_ Ze pair of you has quite ze unique relationship, _non?_"

"He's the king of the awesome me, so of course!" the silver-haired man said, and Alfred winced at the innuendo that seemed to have gone right over his head while the Frenchman chuckled.

"What are you doing here anyway, Gilbert? Surely you are not here to teach zat _petit_ _Angleterre _a lesson as well?"

"Nah, I'm just here because my people are. Fritz told me I should get out of the country for a bit anyway, it's not like we're doing much there." This caused the Frenchman to chuckle again in that strange fashion of his.

While the officers had been talking, Zach and Alfred had made their way through every other table in the dining tent, but the pair didn't seem to pay them any mind until they walked up to the head of theirs.

"Excuse me," Alfred spoke up, "but we need to clean here, if it's not too much of a bother."

Both turned to look at him, allowing Alfred to see the Frenchman's face for the first time. He was surprisingly young, just a bit older than the silver-haired man, with blue eyes and barely present stubble on his chin. He also noticed that the other man's eyes were indeed a deep shade of crimson. Alfred repressed a shudder (because, puffy little bird or no, the eyes definitely were unnerving).

The Frenchman smiled cheerfully. "_Mais non_, it is no bother at all. We were just about to leave, is that not right, Gilbert?"

The other just grunted and stood. "Whatever. I'm gonna go to my tent and read my letter from my awesome king."

"Mind if I follow you?" the Frenchman asked smoothly.

"Yes, I mind. You're a bloody pervert," the other replied, shooting his friend a glare, to which he responded with an obviously false display of injury.

"Ah, _mon amour_ has been denied yet again! Tragic, how few truly understand!" The pair walked past Alfred and Zach, the Frenchman muttering something in Zach's ear that left the boy blushing bright red.

Alfred watched them go, wondering exactly who they were. They reminded him very much of Arthur, and he decided it was something more than just the Frenchman's hat. Turning back to the table, he said, "C'mon, let's finish up. Then we can turn in too."

_V~-~-~V_

On days when the snow was too thick to perform drills or light fires, Alfred and Zach were left confined to their tent, passing the time with card games and swapping stories of their lives. Alfred told Zach of working for Ben Franklin and of Rose, and his farming years before Boston and Philadelphia.

"I'm the youngest son," Zach said. "I've got three older brothers and two older sisters, plus a younger sister. The oldest two brothers are set to carry on the farm for father and the other is studying to be a lawyer, so they were all pressuring me to do something with my life."

"So you joined the Army," Alfred supplied, giving his boots another wipe. They'd been clean long ago, but he felt like he needed to _do_ something or he'd freeze.

"Yeah," Zach said quietly. "My older sisters and mother didn't like that, they're a bit protective, but father was all for it. Said the Army would whip me into shape good, and then maybe I'd actually be useful."

He paused, looking very depressed, but perked up and asked Alfred, "So why'd you join? Was it your folks too?"

"Nah, I lost touch with them a couple years ago, when I went to Boston. I just felt like, once the Revolution started, the army was where I needed to be." Abruptly, Thomas Mather's words came back to him, replaying in his distinctive accent, "_You just watch, son, it'll come soon enough. Heck, you're young, you'll probably fight in it! Fight for American freedom, that's what you'll do!"_

_Fighting for American freedom_, Alfred mused. He supposed that was what he was doing, but it didn't feel like anything all that grand.

"_I don't really know… but someone who can protect people, or make people happy. I think I'd like that."_

"_I think you would do a smashing good job."_

Alfred smiled as his own words to Arthur also came back. If that was his life goal, he supposed he was doing a good job of fulfilling it, just as Arthur had said he would. He wondered where Arthur was at that moment. Probably still sitting in stuffy politician meetings, where maybe, by now, he'd actually look like he was supposed to be.

Zach interrupted Alfred's thoughts with a loud sigh as he leaned back onto his bedroll. "I wish I could make it on my own, but I'm definitely not brave enough."

"You're brave enough to join the Army," Alfred replied, "I bet you could do it." Zach gave him a wan smile.

"Thanks, but all my money's getting sent to my family anyway to buy seed for this year's planting and to pay for Paul's law school. It'll also probably get used for Sally's dowry…" he laughed ruefully, "so I won't see a cent."

"Just get yourself a job once we get done with this war. I'm sure there'll be plenty to do once we're an official country."

"You think I could do that?"

Alfred gave his most encouraging smile. In the last few months they'd spent together, Zach was undeniably the best friend he'd ever had, and even if he was a bit too timid for his own good, he definitely was one of the kindest people he'd ever met. He'd surely get a good job once they were done with this Revolution. He answered without hesitation.

"Absolutely."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred thought spring would never come to their frozen encampment at Valley Forge, but the snow slowly yet surely melted until the trees started to show the little green buds that signaled new life.

It wasn't all that surprising when, one morning, Davis's voice sounded through their company's camp. "Up and at 'em, you sorry excuses for men, we're moving out today!" After all, Alfred figured that the British would want to get moving as soon as possible to put down the unruly rebels and return to England.

Both Alfred and Zach were fully awake very quickly at the sound of Davis's barking voice, knowing that if they were anywhere _near_ the last person, they'd get their hides handed to them by the commander. Bedrolls were tied, their few belongings stuffed into satchels, uniforms donned, and tent dismantled at lightning speeds, with the only discussion being a confirmation that it was Alfred's turn to carry the tent poles.

Moving as fast as they could without running, the two filed into place in the line, thankfully noting that they were among the early ones. That didn't stop Davis from shooting them a glare, but it seemed to be his general use one for all the men, so Zach's shivers stayed manageable.

"Where are we going, sir?" one of the other soldiers had the bravery to ask.

Davis kept his eyes focused on the troops filing into place, but answered, "The higher-ups want us moving to New Jersey. Washington seems to think the Reds are vulnerable while they're concentrating on some baggage train." He glanced at the line of men. "I hope for your sakes that von Steuben's training worked, or you'll be nothing but inexperienced American dust under the filthy boots of those lobsterback regulars."

After that, the troops remained silent while the rest arrived. As was typical, Davis gave the last man a verbal thrashing before he gave the order to march.

It was an unusual march because they weren't alone as they had been before, but joining a bulk of the Continental Army exiting Valley Forge. This would be their first major battle, and Alfred could practically taste the tension in the air.

_V~-~-~V_

The plan of attack was unclear at best. There was supposedly an advance group that would be leading the assault, followed by a few others. From Davis's rants directed at messengers, Alfred gathered that there was a fair bit of bureaucratic confusion surrounding the leadership of the units, something he figured the higher-ups would figure out eventually. He had more pressing matters to deal with.

Zach's talent for worrying was reaching new extremes. He was constantly packing and repacking his belongings, each time to take out the few personal objects he'd brought with him: a locket from his mother, a handkerchief from his sisters, and a pocketwatch from one of his brothers.

He also kept muttering pessimistic thoughts. "What if my rifle gets jammed? What if I drop my ammunition? What if I don't hear the orders right and get lost?"

And worst of all, "What if I don't come back?"

It was depressing.

"Zach!" Alfred snapped, grabbing his best friend's shoulders with both hands and wrenching Zach towards him. Even if they'd only known each other for little over half a year, Alfred could see the differences in Zach's face. The new lines between his brows, a hollowness to his cheeks, a slightly more mature countenance; it was the little things that let him know war was taking its toll.

"You're worrying over nothing!" Alfred continued. "'What ifs' aren't going to get you anywhere! Just be confident in your training and it'll be all right!"

Zach shrugged off Alfred's hands. "You don't know that," he muttered. "They're perfectly real concerns."

"Yeah, and if you keep thinking about them they'll give you bad luck! So stop!" He was still obviously unconvinced. Alfred sighed exasperatedly. "Listen to me, Zachariah Wetherby!"

That got his attention. Zach snapped his head around, brown eyes wide. Alfred never called him by his full name.

"Your rifle had been cleaned so many times, jamming is the last thing it would do! Your ammunition bag can be tied to your waist, so you can't drop it! I'll be right beside you, so you definitely won't get lost! _And goddammit, you're going to survive, so don't you dare talk like that!"_

Taking a breath, Alfred forced his voice back down to a normal volume and said, as convincingly as he knew how, "We're the heroes, the brave men of the Continental. You and I are going to go back home and be heroes together, for America. You're going to see your sisters, and I'm going to see… I'll see Rose, because I promised I'd come back. So you _will_ get out of this battle, I swear."

Zach stared, stunned at the vehemence of the outburst. Then he cracked a small smile. "I guess you're right. Then we'll make it back together, okay Alfred?"

"We will," Alfred agreed. "I swear we will."

_V~-~-~V_

The battle gave Alfred a distinct sense of foreboding from the start. As part of the advance group, he knew they were under the command of General Lee, someone both intelligent and experienced, but for some reason he just couldn't bring himself to like the man. He would much have preferred the younger Washington. Perhaps then they wouldn't be clueless about their orders and moving at a snail's pace after some British baggage train.

The June heat was equally unbearable as the Valley Forge cold had been. Alfred could feel the energy being sapped from those around him as the day wore on and the heat only intensified. The humidity was just as strong, with moisture palpable in the air and clouds on the horizon signaling a coming storm.

Sounds of a skirmish elsewhere could be heard, but without a clear idea of the British troops' locations, their corps was given no orders. Glancing sideways, Alfred made eye contact with Zach. He gave him what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, earning a brief smile in return.

Alfred noticed the men around him moving, beginning to head nervously in the direction from which they'd come. He turned to one of the aides on horseback.

"What's going on?" he shouted. "Why are we retreating?"

The aide gave him a confused shrug. "We have no orders from the General, and the enemy's troop movements would make attack useless. I'd advise you to follow your comrades, son," he replied, turning his mount around as he spoke.

"Let's go, Alfred," Zach said quietly, tugging on his uniform sleeve. "We don't want to get left behind."

The pair joined the movement of retreating troops, shuffling back along the road they'd come by, already tired and filthy without having fired a single shot. Sounds of gunfire still reached their ears from a distance, and the sky was clouded with the all-too-familiar haze of artillery smoke.

Suddenly, Alfred heard a shout. Indecipherable at first, it grew clearer as they grew closer to its source.

"Halt the retreat! Form a defensive line, immediately!"

Zach turned to Alfred, confusion written clearly on his face. "Did he just say to stop retreating?"

"I think he did," he replied, falling into place with the growing line of soldiers and turning back to where they'd just retreated from. "Maybe the British are coming this way now."

"Best not to question orders, I guess," came the reply, as Zach heaved himself into a more favorable position, loading his rifle. "Now what?"

"We wait."

They didn't have to wait long for the first line of red uniforms to emerge from the encroaching smoke. Alfred briefly recalled words von Steuben had once mentioned to them: "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes."

Though he didn't really believe in Sarah's God, he closed his eyes for a moment and prayed.

The command came, a harsh bark through the stifling stillness of the battlefield.

"_Fire!_"

Alfred held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>That was the longest chapter yet! I am impressed with myself...<br>The battle that Alfred participates in was the Battle of Monmouth, in Monmouth, New Jersey on June 28,1778. All troop movements and the "bureaucratic confusion" were as accurate as I could make them. For more information, the american revolution. com is very helpful (take out the spaces).  
>Yes, von Steuben did hire people to swear for him, as well as making major improvements to the Americans' camps at Valley Forge. France also had many generals and troops fighting with the Americans (because he wanted to beat up England), which is why he's chatting with Prussia this chapter.<br>Davis and Zach are my own characters. If there was an officer named Davis, it's coincidence. Alfred is an ordinary soldier because he looks too young to be an officer, still his late teens.

Thank you for reading! If you have any comments or corrections, a review would be lovely. Please look forward to chapter 5!


	5. Revolution: Part II

Chapter 5! Ba-dam!  
>Due to a bit of writer's block I had for chapter 6, this chapter was majorly edited, and posted late today instead of a few hours ago... I hope it meets expectations!<p>

Thank you very much to Mischief managed, Amelia Mills, WeAllFlyHigh, southern pride, and an anon for your lovely reviews!  
>Thank you as well to JoyOfSoul and again to Amelia Mills for your favorites and alerts!<p>

**Please note, this chapter is still rated T for language and blood. **Just like last chapter. It'll go back down for chapter 6.

I disclaim, and own nothing.

* * *

><p>The battle didn't take long to dissolve into chaos.<p>

The British, evidently the better-trained of the two, consistently pushed Alfred's unit back, though the Americans resisted losing all control thanks to the maneuvers taught by von Steuben. But none of these thoughts occurred to Alfred.

Focused solely on loading and shooting, his ears rang with the constant bang of artillery as he aimed and fired into the red-and-white mass that was the British regulars. He could barely breathe, his lungs filled with the thick ashy smoke and nostrils overloaded with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

The clouds, once on the horizon, had collected above them, barely visible through the smoke, and the promised summer storm began.

The order to charge was given, barely registered in Alfred's brain before he found his body reacting automatically, leaping up from his crouch and sprinting forward with all he had, exhaustion in his limbs temporarily forgotten, ignorant of the downpour rushing around him.

Soldiers collapsed all around him, blood blossoming across their once-blue uniforms, washed pale by the rainfall. He felt a bullet graze his shoulder, but ignored the sting, charging blindly forward.

Someone fired from behind him, catching a British soldier just ahead of him in the leg. As he collapsed, still holding his torso upright, Alfred charged, bayonet pointed.

Alfred was about to run the man through when he noticed his eyebrows.

_V~-~-~V_

Thick and bushy, positioned above two clouded, but still emerald green eyes, looking not a day older than when he'd met him in Boston.

The noise of the battle faded into the background. There were hundreds fighting on all sides, but it felt for all the world like they were alone as the green eyes stared back, full of hatred and not a small amount of pain.

"A-Arthur?"

The green eyes widened, their hatred shifting to suspicion. "You—how do you know my name, bloody Yank?" he snarled back, clutching his leg in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.

"We met, in Boston, a couple years ago on the pier—do you remember?"

The Englishman looked momentarily confused, but then comprehension dawned. "You… you're Alfred?" He received a nod in reply.

Arthur threw his head back and laughed, a hollow, sarcastic sound that wouldn't stop. "Imagine that! That little boy, come to kill me, the great British Empire! Oh, if that frog could see me now, he would _laugh!_" He paused, peering through the rain to meet Alfred's shocked gaze.

"Why didn't you kill me? You've already killed thousands of my men, left me weak and bloody, so _why don't you fucking kill me?"_

Alfred was certain now that the other man was insane. He'd seen it happen to some of his own companions, the stress of war finally getting to them, leading them to forget their friends, family, and home, leaving them raving in a tent. But Arthur had said he had nothing to love but his country, which left Alfred confused.

"Arthur… get up. You've got England to go back to, right? So don't you have to keep fighting?" Alfred wasn't sure why he'd decided to be merciful to this Englishman, who was supposed to be his enemy just like all the others, even if he currently resembled a drowned cat. But the other would have none of it.

"Don't give me your _sympathy_, you traitor! All the men in this colony! I fed them, clothed them, gave them towns and a stable economy, and what do they do? Rebel, because _I'm not good enough for them!"_

Suddenly, Arthur staggered to his feet, bayonet leveled at Alfred, and charged.

Despite his injured leg, the bayonet's trajectory was true, and Alfred barely had time to raise his own musket in defense, staggering backwards as the other's bayonet made contact, flinging the weapon from his grasp.

He panicked, expecting another attack, but Arthur had collapsed once again, gun forgotten in the mud beside him.

"Why?" came the choked gasp, so quiet Alfred nearly missed it. "Why am I never good enough? Why do they all have to _leave?_"

Alfred stayed silent, watching the breakdown of the man before him, who once had been larger-than-life, yet now looked so small, rain mixing with the tear tracks on his pale face.

The bleeding in his leg continued and Arthur crumpled, unconscious, bringing Alfred back to the battle still raging around him. Casting one last glance Arthur's prone figure, Alfred lifted his musket from where it had fallen, absently noticing the scratch along its side from where it had saved his life.

As he made his way forward to where the rest of his company had gone, a single realization scattered any thoughts he was having about the broken man behind him.

_Where's Zach?_

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred ran, not worrying about the soldiers around him, searching for the familiar head of curly blond hair, mind full of the promise he'd made to always stay by his friend's side.

"ZACH!" he cried, shoving aside another British soldier that tried to attack with his elbow, not minding the bayonet's point as it slid across his ribs. The pain was secondary to his desire to make sure his friend was safe, no matter what. Something in the back of his mind reminded him that this _was_ war, and there was no way he was completely safe, in fact, he was injured more likely than not.

Frantically scanning the crowd of soldiers, searching for that one blue uniform, Alfred's gaze finally lighted on the familiar profile of the youngest Wetherby son.

Sprinting forward, he was beside Zach faster than he thought possible, quickly thrusting his bayonet into the British soldier advancing on the other boy. "Zach! Are you all right? Please tell me you're okay!"

Quickly assessing him, Alfred saw only a scratch on his forehead, dripping blood across his face, and the accumulation of dirt that was on everyone. "Thank God," he whispered.

Zach's eyes widened. "Alfred!" he exclaimed, "I thought you were back there!"

"I was, but ran here when I realized you weren't."

The other's expression softened. "Thanks, Al—"

Alfred didn't hear him finish his sentence before the world exploded around them.

_V~-~-~V_

_Opening his eyes, Alfred found the world a much brighter place._

_Gone was the scent of gunpowder and the sickly humidity that had accompanied the battle, replaced by a cool breeze, an almost-forgotten aroma of wildflowers, and tall grasses that brushed his knees._

_Looking around, Alfred realized he recognized the meadow. It was one he'd played in many times as a child with his buffalo friend and the rabbits, fairly close to where he'd lived with Nek._

_Suddenly, he spotted movement in the grass. It was a little boy, looking no more than five, wearing long white playclothes, running barefoot through the meadow. His blond hair stood out in the sea of green, especially his distinctive cowlick._

_With a start, Alfred realized he was looking at his younger self._

_A pair of voices reached the meadow from a distance. Alfred remembered not knowing what they were saying at the time, but now he recognized the words spoken as English, some in a high, clear voice and others in a deep murmur._

"_This is the place, Su-san!"_

_The other voice muttered something indistinct that the higher voice clearly understood. "The place where I saw that little boy, remember?"_

_There was another murmur, but it was definitely closer than before. Watching the smaller version of himself, Alfred saw the younger him panic at the sounds of the obviously white men. After all, he recalled being told many times by his various older brothers that the white men were not to be trusted._

_The younger Alfred moved silently through the grasses, ducking low so his head was hidden. Alfred watched as the little ripple in the greenery arrived at the edge of the woods beside the meadow, and the little blond boy emerged and quickly scaled a tree._

_Alfred followed, noticing that he didn't make a sound as he moved. It was like one of Nek's magic dreams, in which the dreamer was just an observer._

_Turning, Alfred watched the strangers arrive. Dressed in the strange colorful clothes Europeans had been fond of at the time, they stood out like sore thumbs in the wild landscape, especially with their bright blond hair. One was smaller and looked rather injured, with bandages on his cheek. The other was much taller, and the expression on his face made Alfred shiver and wonder if perhaps he was the one who had injured the other, but the small one looked unafraid by his presence._

_The smaller one was looking intently through the high grass, a small frown appearing on his face. "I was so sure he was here…" he said, "He was so adorable and small, and all by himself in such a big scary place…"_

_Suddenly, he perked up again. "Hey, Su-san? If we find him, can he be our little brother? He might be one of us, after all!"_

_The intimidating one muttered something again. "I've always wanted a child…" the small one sighed, which oddly enough made the other's cheeks redden ever so slightly. Alfred assumed it was a trick of the bright sun. He replied, saying something that apparently confused the small one. They began to walk away from the meadow, and Alfred watched his little self breathe a sigh of relief at their departure. Just as he was about to descend from the tree, another person appeared nearby, speaking in a language that Alfred hadn't heard in a long, long time._

"_What are you doing up there, Mukki?"_

_Alfred sucked in a breath at the sight of the woman who had spoken. She had sun-bronzed skin, wearing a light brown deerskin dress and a gray fur over her shoulders, with an eagle feather tucked into a loose black braid. While she was frowning up at the child, her deep brown eyes twinkled._

"_Nek!" the little boy cried, leaping out of the tree and into the woman's arms. Alfred dearly wished he could do the same, but found himself rooted to the spot. "There were strange white men in the meadow, Nek! I hid, 'cuz big brother always said you can't trust them, and they said things I don't understand..." The woman's frown deepened slightly._

"_They're your people, you know, Mukki. Someday, when I have to leave, you'll need to stay with them."_

"_But I don't want to, Nek! I want to stay with you forever!" the boy cried plaintively, hugging her tighter._

"_You can't do that. You're one who must remember, like me, and your people will need you. Our time together will grow short."_

_The boy sniffed. "But the big white man was scary! I don't want to go with them!"_

"_Was the little one?"_

"_No…"_

"_Then you know they are not all bad. You will be just fine."_

_The woman turned, walking deeper into the forest with the boy still clinging to her. As the world around Alfred began to dissolve, he could have sworn she'd turned to meet his eyes, smiling as she whispered:_

"_Kuwumaras, Mukki."_

_V~-~-~V_

The first thing he saw was white.

Black and red spots on an empty white plane.

Then the white was replaced by black, and Alfred felt the pain return.

It hurt all over, fiery-hot stabs of pain shooting through his torso every time he breathed. He would have cried out, but found his throat dry, and all that escaped was a faint croak.

He heard sounds of voices, incoherent at first in his world of black and agony. He became slowly aware of a cloth surface beneath him, stiff and course, and a particular tightness around his torso, lower legs, and arm.

Fighting to regain consciousness, Alfred pushed the pain away as best he could, and attempted to open his eyes.

At first, the world was too bright, and he immediately had to close them again, blinking rapidly in an attempt to restore his sight. The incoherent voices slowly gained substance.

"—awake! He's awake, I saw him blink!"

"Who's awake?"

"Jones, sir! He's blinking!" A hazy form appeared above Alfred's head. "Jones, can you hear me?"

A second form joined the first, coming slowly into focus as a pair of men, one older and wearing a pair of spectacles, the other young and excited. Neither was familiar.

Alfred attempted to clear his throat and speak, but there was no moisture in his mouth. "Somebody get me some water," the older man said, and a cup was held to Alfred's lips. He drank greedily, almost choking as the effort to swallow brought another stab of pain.

"You made a miracle recovery," the young one was saying enthusiastically. "Your chest was nearly blown to bits by the artillery blast, but somehow you managed to avoid it enough that it didn't damage any vital organs."

_It was Nek_, he wanted to say, _Nek saved me. She said I needed to live for you_. But only one word reached his lips.  
>"Zach?" he asked, wincing at the grating sound of his voice.<p>

"No, my name is Michael," the doctor replied, but Alfred shook his head.

"No… wher… where's Zach?"

The older man met Alfred's eyes. "Do you mean Zachariah Wetherby, son?"

The effort to nod was extreme, but he managed a slight incline of his head.

"I'm afraid he wasn't as lucky as you, son. You're the only one within a thirty-foot radius who survived that artillery blast."

_The night is near for your friend_.

_Find him quickly_.

Alfred moved his arms, heavy as lead by his sides, in an attempt to sit up. The young doctor instantly panicked.

"You can't do that, Jones! You're injuries are too severe to move!" But Alfred ignored his protests, pulling himself slowly into a sitting position, an action that left him dizzy and threatening to black out once again.

Pivoting in his bed, Alfred stuck his feet out over the edge, and tentatively placed them on the ground. This seemed to go well, but the instant he tried to put any weight on them, his muscles would recoil from the pain, sending him back to a sitting position. The young doctor was still freaking out, waving his arms about anxiously but doing nothing to help.

The older one returned, and gave the younger a look of disdain. "Can't you see you're not accomplishing anything by standing there like a brain-dead idiot? Honestly, Phillips, there are days when I wish I hadn't accepted you as my apprentice!"

The man, Phillips, folded sheepishly in on himself. "Sorry, sir."

"Good," the doctor replied gruffly. "Now help me get Jones over to Wetherby. That kid isn't going to last much longer."

Alfred heard the doctor's words, but they failed to properly register in his pain-fogged mind. He barely felt it through the dizziness when the pair hoisted him by his shoulders and carried him away from his bed, but he fought to keep his eyes open. They set him down again, in a chair this time, the older doctor holding his shoulders up until Alfred regained full awareness.

What he saw nearly made him wish he hadn't been so stubborn.

It was Zach lying before him, but it was not Zach. The Zach he knew was almost always cheerful, and when he wasn't he was worrying, eyebrows knitted in a small crease. He showered more than the average soldier (or average colonist, for that matter) ever did, and insisted on cleaning their clothes and bedrolls for nothing but the sake of sanitation. He was terrified of Davis and of getting lost, but loved his sisters more than anything. In the little more than half a year that Alfred had known him, he'd never been sick with more than a cold.

Yet here he was, that same once-childish face now harboring a stillness that it never had, even in sleep. He was still breathing, a shallow, harsh contortion of his lungs that rasped out of his slightly open mouth, his blonde hair matted to his pillow and curled against his cheek, sticky with sweat. He had a gash on his jaw that would surely leave a permanent scar, and a rust-colored bandage on his forehead that matched the others that were just visible beneath his tattered and stained uniform shirt.

Evidently, the doctors hadn't seen fit to change the bandages of a dying man.

Shakily, Alfred reached forward, and placed his own battered hand on Zach's.

The great effort it took was evident on his face, but at the touch, Zach opened his eyes. Chocolate-brown as ever, only a small remnant of their once-vibrant energy remained.

_You can't do this to me, Zach._

A small smile graced his lips, just the barest twitch.

"Hey, Zach," Alfred said hoarsely.

_We were going back home together, right?_

"Ah…" The sound escaping Zach's lips was a cruel imitation of his still-young voice, sounding instead like an incredibly old man. "Al… fred…"

_Didn't I swear to you that we would survive?_

"Yeah… I'm here. Nek told me I needed to be."

Zach smiled. "She's… right."

"I never told you about her properly, did I?" Alfred continued shakily. "She's my mother, my real mother, but she's been around a lot longer than even the English. Sometimes, she just knows things." He laughed, a broken chuckle. "I miss her… she went west, following her people, with all my older brothers and sisters, and left me here, saying I needed to live with _my_ people."

Zach closed his eyes, listening as Alfred told him his story, his _real _story. "I was found by the Joneses, when I was already somewhere around fifty. Funny, huh, how I don't look that old..." He continued, unfolding his life before Zach like he'd never done for anyone else. He told him everything, from leaving Emeline to the urge to go to Philadelphia, of Arthur Kirkland the strange young delegate and the Declaration of Independence, and detailed his love of the sea and the scent of St George's coffee beans.

Even as the pain-clenched expression on Zach's face slackened to one more peaceful, even when the rattling sound coming from Zach's lungs stopped, and even as the fingers Alfred clung so desperately to grew gradually colder, he continued his tale. Something compelled him to finish, to lay all his secrets bare for the best friend he'd ever had, for one whose innocence and life should never have ended so soon, and for whose existence he'd remember for the rest of his.

It was only after he finished that he allowed himself to cry.

_V~-~-~V_

It was weeks later when Alfred learned the details of the battle that took Zach's life.

They'd named it the Battle of Monmouth, something Alfred resented. The naming of the battles was something that took away the reality of the event, distancing the rest of the world from its struggles, blood, and loss. Alfred preferred to remember them by his experiences instead, bottling the pain so that it remained fresh forever. Even if Zach was one of four hundred casualties, Alfred would honor them all.

He wondered if this was what Nek had meant when she spoke of remembering things for his people.

The battle was also scored as an American victory, for managing to retain their ground. In reality, it was more of a draw because the British hadn't really lost anything either, and hadn't sought a battle in the first place, merely defended their baggage train. Zach had been killed for nothing but a tie.

It was probably a good thing Alfred was stuck in the army hospital, because otherwise, he would have gone out and given those generals a piece of his mind, insubordination or not.

Even though two months had passed since Zach's death, Alfred was still confined to the bed. The elder doctor, whose name he learned was Gibson Fuller, refused to let him out of his sight. Alfred was, after all, his miracle patient, who'd managed to survive what had blown everyone else nearby to pieces.

He also was continually getting reinjured, despite never leaving his bed. Almost daily, a fresh bullet wound or bayonet slice would make itself known, a phenomenon that even Dr Fuller could do nothing but scratch his head at and bandage. But these new maladies were preventing Alfred from leaving, which irritated him in the extreme. Here he was, a member of the Continental Army, sitting in bed while men were dying for their noble cause of American freedom.

He'd never in his life felt more useless.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred spent three years transferred from military hospital to hospital, until the fall of 1781. At first he'd resisted this treatment, insisting he was well enough to be back on the front, but the blood that leaked down his chin had convinced the doctors otherwise.

His only solace in his captivity was his correspondence with Rose. Letters had been few and far between when he'd been fighting, and his access to stationary for a reply was even less reliable than their postal service. But in the hospitals, anyone he asked was completely willing to go out of their way to find him paper and pen, and always ensured that his letters were delivered as soon as they received them. Though convenient for Alfred, he felt rather bad for using people in this way, as if he was abusing his mysterious natural ability.

Rose's letters were always well-written, because her mother had always been adamant that good penmanship and grammar were essential for a proper lady. In them, she told Alfred about anything and everything going on in Philadelphia, from her mother's new blackberry cobbler to the political movements of those in Independence Hall. She got most of her information from the articles her father printed, ever since he'd moved from the books into the newspaper business.

Alfred felt that his replies were lacking in comparison, because the only thing he had to write about was the hospital, and much of went on there was either bloody or depressing. So instead he made light of his situation by telling her stories he'd heard from his oft-changing neighbors.

He learned Rose's opinion on his hospitalization very quickly, and heard about it again in nearly every letter. She was alternately worried about his perpetual injuries and delighted that he wasn't fighting, and thus in no danger of dying. Alfred chose not to remind her that his wounds could suddenly multiply and kill him at any time, instead just agreeing with whatever it was she said.

Her last letter arrived just a week before Alfred's final day in the hospital. On October 2nd, Dr. Fuller presented him with an off-yellow envelope, Alfred's name on the front written in Rose's usual loopy script.

Inside, he learned that Rose had decided to go to college at someplace called the Bethlehem Female Seminary, the only women's college in the country. She explained that they wouldn't teach her how to be a doctor, only a teacher, but she wrote that that was better than remaining uneducated forever. Alfred had the urge to tell her that _most_ women didn't go to college and she was by no means uneducated, but he didn't even want to imagine her righteous indignation at such an opinion.

But as such, she wouldn't be returning to Philadelphia until her education was complete, and then she'd most likely find a profession elsewhere. With Ben off in France and Rose in Bethlehem (though at least that was still in Pennsylvania), Alfred found he now had little to no reason to return to the city he'd been calling home.

Smiling faintly, he re-folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope, adding it to the yellowing stack of her previous letters in his bag. He supposed he'd find a job somewhere. Farming again was always an option.

Besides, he didn't have the luxury of being able to stay in one place forever. Because for Alfred, that would be a long time indeed.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Wow... that wound up being longer than expected...<p>

"Kuwumaras" means, "I love you" in Algonquin (that may or may not have been obvious). Again, online translations, so if I'm wrong, please correct me.

Originally, Finland and Sweden didn't make an appearance, but I wanted to write that scene somehow, so I completely rewrote Alfred's original dream sequence. Emeline was also supposed to be mentioned, and is now not (I'm saving her for later). And I killed Zach... which I hate myself for. I really liked his character. But it did add some angsty-ness and tragedy, which I have previously warned you that I would write. Also... England.

That's about it. If you have time, drop a comment or review, and please look forward to the next chapter!


	6. Preparations

The arrival of chapter 6!  
>Sorry, this one is a bit shorter than the others, but I think it ends at a suitable place. The next chapter will need to be longer.<p>

Thank you so much to JoyOfSoul, Amelia Mills, Sorrowryuu, MindMaster, and SamLjacksin for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Kirino Tsuki, fluteprincess95, i am veeery bored, NatariSama, xxEu-chan and again to Sorrowryuu for your alerts and favorites!<p>

I disclaim, and own nothing.

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><p><em>On October 9<em>_th__, 1781, Alfred woke with one of his need-to-move feelings again, this time directing him to somewhere in Virginia. However, under no circumstances was Dr Fuller about to discharge him for no reason other than he'd decided to go to Virginia, so Alfred resigned himself to a childish pout for the remainder of the day._

_It was the following afternoon when the news reached their hospital in New Jersey._

_The sound of a horse's hooves made its way through the canvas walls of their tent. There was a thump made by someone dismounting, and a soldier burst into the hospital._

_Looking grim, Dr Fuller approached the boy, who saluted. From his face, it was clear that he expected news of another battle in their area, but Alfred could sense nothing but excitement coming from the boy._

"_What's wrong?" the doctor asked gravely, but the boy, nearly bouncing by now, just grinned brightly as he saluted. _

"_The war's over! The Brits surrendered at Yorktown, sir! We can all go home!"_

_There was a moment of shocked silence before the tent full of wounded men erupted in cheers. _

_V~-~-~V_

1804

Years had passed since the day Alfred had received the news of American independence, but the memory was as fresh as if it had happened just a few days previously.

He considered it unsurprising, really, because he looked almost as he had on that day, barely a few years older.

Following independence, he'd chosen to wander again (rather aimlessly, in his opinion), picking up work where he could and journeying up and down the Atlantic coast, seeing all the states he could. In the time he'd spent, he'd seen the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the establishment of a new kind of government for the people, as revolutionary as Ben had promised. He'd watched the country grow as new states joined the Union (as it was becoming known) and the dissolution of the short-lived State of Franklin (he'd rather liked the name of that one). He'd read about politics in the newspapers, of the souring of their relationship with France and the Louisiana Purchase, and felt the agony when thousands died when the yellow fever plague struck his beloved Philadelphia eleven years before.

In fact, he'd felt his own agony for that event.

But currently, his aging man he considered a friend, Jefferson, was President, and among the first things he'd done upon his inauguration in 1801 was to seek out Alfred where he'd been staying in Virginia and ask him if he was interested in a job.

Alfred had accepted, of course, and had helped sort out the aftermath of one of the most confusing elections ever in the young country. Jefferson had tied with a man named Aaron Burr, and it had been up to the House of Representatives to vote on the President. Alfred, even if he felt he wasn't really supposed to take sides, was elated when he heard of Jefferson's victory.

And now, working in an office in his new capital of Washington DC, Alfred found himself being summoned by the President.

He knocked on the door of Jefferson's office. "Sir? It's Alfred Jones. You sent for me?"

"Come in, Alfred," came the voice from within, and Alfred opened the door to step through. He then seated himself across from Jefferson in one of the green cushioned chairs he'd set up for this purpose, and waited for him to speak.

Alfred had always wondered why Jefferson had never mentioned anything about his age, had never questioned why he always looked the same. He was actually grateful for this in more ways than he could express, but he couldn't help but wonder what the man had heard from Ben that ensured his unflappability on the matter.

Jefferson's eyes met Alfred's, and the older (looking) man steepled his fingers before him, elbows resting on the desk.

"I'm thinking of sending an expedition," he said, then was silent for several moments. Alfred waited, knowing the man would continue eventually.

"You see, trade with the eastern lands of India and China is something I desire greatly, and traveling across Europe to get to such places is very uneconomic. If a water route from here to the unknown western coast of our own continent could be found, it would expedite travel considerably."

"With all due respect to your idea, didn't they try that?" Alfred asked skeptically. "If I recall my history correctly, the explorers sent found no Northwest Passage and went home."

Jefferson waved his hand dismissively. "That was more than one hundred years ago, Alfred, and the New World wasn't even populated yet by more than the uncivilized natives. We're so much better off than they were already."

Alfred winced inwardly at the jab at Nek's people, but Jefferson did have a point. "What if there is none? Would you settle for an overland route?"

"Going by ship is much faster," Jefferson said. "An overland route would do nothing for commerce, because carrying goods would be far more difficult."

"But couldn't you do it anyway, just to prove we can?"

"Economically unfeasible, but it would be good to try, I suppose. This trip is also an opportunity to explore our newly acquired Louisiana territory, and hopefully ally with some of the tribal groups."

"For what purpose?"

"It's just a safety precaution. America is destined to grow much more than it already has, and expansion would be easier if they were compliant."

"The… Indian tribes won't like that, you know. You _are_ kicking them out of their territory, and it was theirs long before it was part of ours."

This earned Alfred another dismissive hand wave. "We won't be 'kicking them out,' as you say, we'll simply be relocating them, with proper compensation of course."

"They won't take your money," Alfred said flatly. "It has little to no value for them. You can't just _buy_ your way into owning their land!"

Jefferson gave Alfred an odd look. "May I cite the Louisiana Purchase, Alfred," he answered evenly, but his expression was growing far more calculating.

Alfred waved off the reference to recent history. "You merely bought the so-called French territory, with may I add, _no _consideration of the people living on it."

"There are Europeans living on the edges of the territory as well," Jefferson countered, "But you seem to know much more about the Indians."

"With all due respect, Mr. Jefferson, I've been around for a while, and know many of your so-called 'Indians', and they won't stand for disrespect from white men," Alfred replied, trying his hardest not to sound irritated. But Jefferson didn't seem to notice his tone, and only gave Alfred a thoughtful look.

"You know, you could be useful on this expedition, Alfred."

Taken aback, Alfred's eyes widened. "Me, sir?"

"Your knowledge of these people and their cause could make you invaluable for negotiations. Would you consider going?"

Alfred's head whirled. Going west! It was inconceivable, traveling into the unknown, away from the familiar (and now beloved) colonies. Away from the battles he'd fought, the lands he'd farmed, and the people he'd come to know.

But Nek had gone west, and the burning desire to see her again, despite the consequences it might bring, suddenly was all but overpowering.

"I'd love to, Mr. Jefferson," Alfred said finally, earning himself an approving nod and a knowing smile from the President.

"Excellent, excellent," he said, reminding Alfred very much Jefferson's former coworker at Independence Hall. "Now, the plan is to explore as much of the new territory as we can while still making good time westward. I've hired two men to lead it, Captain Meriwether Lewis and a Mr. William Clark, and have asked Congress to provide funds. There will also be soldiers meeting the expedition at St. Charles, Missouri…"

"Lewis, as in your other aide?" Alfred asked. The man was fairly friendly, lived near him, and was among Jefferson's close friends.

Jefferson nodded, and went on to describe in detail his plan to establish American sovereignty over as much land as possible clear to the Pacific Ocean, which the expedition would "discover" for America before the Europeans could.

He also planned to assure the allegiance of the natives with his "peace medals" made of silver and in Alfred's opinion, quite frivolous and serving little purpose as a means of persuasion. But Jefferson seemed confident that such a plan would work out.

"You were a soldier, weren't you?" Jefferson suddenly asked. Alfred nodded slowly, unsure of where he was going with this. But the man grinned and said, "Then nobody will question your authority when I send you to Camp Dubois!"

"Camp Dubois?" Alfred asked uncertainly.

"Oh yes, where the soldiers that will meet the expedition are, in Illinois."

"They're going from Illinois to Missouri just to meet us?"

"Oh, yes. They're soldiers, I'm sure they can manage."

Alfred raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Are you sure that would work? I haven't technically been a soldier for thirteen years."

"True…" Jefferson said, tapping his pen absently on his chin, "I often forget just how old you are, Alfred, my apologies. Your age would be unexplainable…" Seeming to reach a conclusion, Jefferson set the pen back in its inkwell. "No matter. You will be sent as my personal observer of the progress of the expedition."

"What's that mean?" Alfred asked warily.

"That means you had better keep a detailed journal of the whole expedition, and the negotiations you perform must be courteous and befitting of the assistant to the President of the United States of America. I trust that shouldn't be a problem?"

Alfred let out a bark of laughter. "Sir, that's what I do every day. It shouldn't be a problem at all."

Alfred turned to go, but Jefferson stopped him. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Whatever happened to that girl from Philadelphia? Rose, was her name I believe? You two seemed fairly close."  
>Alfred felt his heart clench. "I can't stay with people forever, you know," he said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted. "She went to college, and moved on eventually."<p>

"That's too bad," Jefferson said. "A girl like her was good for you, I think."

_V~-~-~V_

The preparations for the expedition took months. It turned out that such an expedition was Jefferson's long-standing dream to undertake, and he was constantly hovering over the proceedings, observing everything with the eye of a perfectionist.

The peace medals, it turned out, had Jefferson's portrait on them. Alfred nearly threw them away in disgust: he'd thought Jefferson would have been better than that.

Black powder and lead for the advanced firearms they were bringing was also necessary. Asserting American strength was imperative, Jefferson maintained, and deadly weapons were apparently essential for this. Knives, blacksmithing equipment (who among them was going to use _that_, Alfred didn't know), medicine, cartography equipment, gift bundles, and most importantly, American flags were also packed, along with the essentials of food, blankets, and canteens for water. In fact, the Alfred found the provisions very similar to those he'd carried during the Revolution.

Having already met Lewis, Alfred knew a bit about him. He'd been born in Virginia (Jefferson's clear favorite state) and was quite the outdoorsman, and was in the army, having fought in several of the battles on the western frontier. He looked about ten years older than Alfred, having just turned thirty earlier that year, with gray-tinged black hair and blue eyes.

Clark was four years older than his counterpart, with the thinning brown hair to show it. He too had been involved in wars on the western front, and resented having been too young to fight in the Revolution (that comment had made Alfred feel quite old), though he'd resigned from the army on cause of poor health. Alfred found him to be an intelligent man, if a bit quiet, but certainly well-read even if his spelling was atrocious.

Both seemed fairly accommodating of Alfred, though Lewis was a bit put-off by the fact that Jefferson thought he had to send someone to watch them. Alfred had heard the two arguing about it, but in the end, Lewis had given in to the president's persuasive argument that Alfred was _indeed _useful.

_V~-~-~V_

With barely a week left before the trip set off, Alfred was again summoned into Jefferson's office, this time for an entirely different matter from the previous occasion, during which Jefferson had spent several hours debating whether or not to add mint leaves for teeth-cleaning purposes to the packing list (and Alfred had convinced him that, mint or no, no one on their expedition was going to brush their teeth anyway). Jefferson was standing, hands clasped behind his back, watching the goings-on outside through his window.

"Ah, Alfred!" Jefferson exclaimed as Alfred entered. "Perfect timing! My new aide just arrived downstairs," he said, gesturing out towards the front lawn. Joining him at the window, Alfred watched as a carriage pulled up in front of the mansion, and the driver leapt off his seat to open the door. A figure exited, looking small from so high, but Alfred could clearly see his curly blond hair.

As the young man hit the ground, he looked up to admire the building before him, and subsequently tripped over his baggage. Alfred and Jefferson winced in unison as he sprawled across the driveway.

"He's fairly young, just a bit over twenty. Just temporary, of course, until the expedition returns," Jefferson said as the pair continued to watch the young man. He appeared to be apologizing profusely to anyone in the vicinity, and allowed one of the maids to lead him away from his luggage as the driver picked it up (rather gingerly, Alfred noted) and carried it into the front hall below.

"How did you manage to find _him_?" Alfred asked as the figures below disappeared and the stablemen unhitched the horses. Turning away from the window, he caught Jefferson's small smile out of the corner of his eye.

"He's actually the son of an acquaintance of mine, a lawyer named Paul Wetherby. I met him while he was at law school at the College of Philadelphia. Mr. Wetherby assures me that his son is a reliable worker, but does need a bit of training, which is where you come in."

"So that's why he's here a few days early," Alfred mused. Then he paused. "Wait, did you just say Wetherby—?"

He never finished his question, because at that moment, the door to the president's office burst open, and Alfred found himself face-to-face with a rather dusty young man who could be a carbon copy of his best friend.

"Sorry, am I late? The carriage took a bit longer than expected—oh, I should have knocked, shouldn't I? I'm so sorry—wait, am I in the right place? You are Mr. Jefferson, aren't you?"

Alfred let out a strangled noise and got out of that room as fast as he could.

_V~-~-~V_

Jefferson had been curious about Alfred's reaction, but Alfred did his best to brush the man off.

The boy (for with his childish face and attitude, Alfred couldn't help but think him anything but) of course thought the whole thing was _his _fault, and wouldn't stop apologizing. Alfred figured it was in a way, but the boy had done nothing wrong, and his constant apologies just made him seem more like Zach than he already was. As a result, Alfred couldn't look him in the face, and wished he would just _be quiet_.

Though the more Alfred actually looked at him, the more he decided it was his attitude that was the biggest reminder, not his face. It was rounder than Zach's had been, with freckles Zach had never had, and his eyes were a blue rather similar to Alfred's own, not Zach's unique chocolate brown.

His name turned out to be Peter Wetherby, named for his father's father. He was the second child, with several younger siblings, and greatly admired his older brother (Paul Wetherby Jr.) who was looking to be a lawyer like their father.

Peter didn't want to go to law school, something that his father had been angry at him for, and thus had taken it upon himself to find Peter a profession. When Jefferson had put out word that he needed a new aide, Paul Wetherby had been the first to contact him.

In the few days Alfred had to show him the ropes of being a presidential aide, he found himself starting to like the boy as an individual instead of his best friend's nephew. But when the expedition's start date arrived, Alfred was rather relieved to be away from the unnerving Peter Wetherby.

_V~-~-~V_

Nobody, Alfred decided, was more excited than Jefferson to see the group of three on its way.

The man was practically hopping in place, spitting out instructions and questions so fast no one understood him, but he didn't seem to care.

"I do believe I haven't seen you this giddy since you came up with a satisfactory opening paragraph to the Declaration," Alfred said quietly, earning himself a chiding glance from the president.

"And _I_ do believe you appear too young to remember such a thing, Mr. Jones," he retorted, and went back to his internal bouncing. "Did you remember to pack the mint leaves?"

"For the _thousandth_ time, we are _not_ bringing mint leaves!" Alfred exclaimed.

"Goodness, there's no need to shout," Jefferson said. "What about the peace medals?"

"Of course we wouldn't forget _those_," Alfred snorted. "Insufferable materialists, the lot of you. Not to mention egoistical. Your portrait engraved on them? Really, sir, was that necessary?"

"Absolutely," Jefferson replied, appearing to ignore Alfred's disparaging tone. "I'm the President, and we're asserting proper guardianship over our country by forging alliances through the presentation of such gifts."

Alfred muttered unintelligibly in reply, remarking on the disgrace to Nek's people. Jefferson didn't hear him, and continued spouting orders. Peter, who had been watching the exchange from beside Jefferson, merely stared at Alfred's audacity to speak to the President in such a manner in shocked awe.

Finally, Lewis appeared from the throng of servants loading the horses. "We're ready to go, sir," he said, addressing Jefferson. "I assume you are as well, Alfred?"

Alfred gave a nod. "Well, mount up then," Lewis replied, "we have a lot of ground to cover to get to Missouri, and then we're off to the Pacific!"

As Alfred made to follow the man, he heard Peter yell, "Take care, Alfred!"

"Will do, Zach," Alfred muttered to himself. "Don't worry too much, you lot!" he yelled over his shoulder. "We'll do just fine, and bring back loads of amazing stuff!"

Mounting his horse, he positioned himself comfortably between his baggages and gave the animal a gentle nudge forward, trotting over to where Lewis and Clark were waiting on their own horses.

"Shall we be going, then, gentleman?" Lewis asked. Clark nodded his assent and the trio headed out. Glancing back, Alfred gave a parting wave to the mansion, before turning around and facing the west.

_I'm coming, Nek_.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Chapter Six Complete!<p>

So. Alfred's off on the famous expedition of Lewis and Clark, getting away from the east coast to see more of his country and possibly to find Nek. Again, I attempted historic accuracy here, but I could only find where the expedition met up with the soldiers from Camp Dubois, so I'm extending their journey a bit. Hope you don't mind.

And a new person appears, young Peter Wetherby. He's purposely similar to Zach, if you haven't figured that out. He _is_ his nephew, after all. We'll meet the rest of Peter's/Zach's family when Alfred returns from the expedition, which will be either one or two chapters long. It depends on how much detail I can find on the journey itself in the vast depths of the internet. There won't be any Nation cameos for a while, I'm afraid. I was considering re-introducing France for the Louisiana Purchase, but his scene would be so tiny and would change this chapter's dynamic quite a bit, so I'll settle for perhaps doing a mention of it sometime later.

Thank you for reading! I hope it met your expectations, and if you have the time, please drop a comment or review! See you next time! (^_^)/


	7. Expedition Part I

Here's the latest chapter!  
>I really meant to update yesterday, honestly I did, but I have been quite busy with other things as of late. Many apologies.<p>

Thank you very much to JoyOfSoul, yue moon, WeAllFlyHigh, ShippudenFlower, and xxEu-chan for your reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Shiftyglob for my lone favorite!<p>

Please enjoy! I disclaim, and own nothing.

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><p>Lewis and Clark, Alfred soon found out, could honestly care less about Jefferson's "declarations of sovereignty." Though both of them harbored a healthy sense of wariness, bordering on dislike, when it came to the Indians and a deal of American patriotism, they were more interested in the expedition as a means of scientific advancement.<p>

It was with great reluctance that they accepted the men of Camp Dubois as part of their trip. Though they agreed that military men would be useful for protection, Lewis was always grumbling that he was a Captain in the army himself, and that being surrounded by incompetent fools would disrupt their scientific pursuits.

Alfred was under the impression that they'd be riding for longer, but when he voiced this opinion to the expedition leaders, they'd just laughed.

"Honestly, Jones, use your head," Lewis said. "The President sent us to find a _water_ passage to the Pacific for commerce, not to prove we're stubborn enough to ride across a continent."

Alfred flushed, slightly embarrassed by his bout of stupidity. "So we're taking a boat? All of us?" he asked tentatively.

"A brilliant conclusion, Jones," came the snarky reply. "We'll be sailing as far as we can west on the rivers, mapping them along the way, and hopefully will eventually get somewhere worthwhile for our President's purposes."

Alfred sighed. It was going to be a long journey if he couldn't get along with Lewis. But such a thing seemed unlikely; after all, he considered it an affront to his competence as a politician and a scientist that Jefferson would send someone to monitor him.

It was a bit over week of day-long riding before the trio arrived in Pittsburgh, and Alfred had never been happier at the prospect of more company.

_V~-~-~V_

Pittsburgh was an interesting city, Alfred had to admit. It wasn't as large or urbanized as Philadelphia, but he supposed it was to be expected: Philadelphia had been around much longer. It did have its own charm though, with its rougher-round-the-edges mishmash of inhabitants, from ordinary citizens moving west to Canadian traders to men coming out of their backwoods farms to hear the latest news and purchase the occasional European cloth for the missus back home.

The city prospered on the banks of the Ohio River as a trading point, and grew by the day as more Americans sought refuge from the increasingly crowded eastern colonies. It was there that a large keelboat had been constructed for the expedition's use. They found it docked as promised, causing Lewis to smile genuinely for the first time since they'd left Washington.

"Beautiful!" he'd exclaimed, and no one had been faster to leave their horse at one of Pittsburgh's stables and climb aboard.

Alfred didn't think it was all that amazing. It was much smaller than all the massive ships with their great white sails he'd seen in Boston, clearly lacking their finery and impressive austerity. But it was a boat, it floated just fine (leak-free as well, a bonus in Alfred's opinion), and had enough sleeping room for the three of them and the soldier's they'd be picking up downriver.

Even so, he couldn't help being excited when he'd set foot on its wooden decks.

Clark caught sight of his gleeful expression. "Have you never sailed before, Jones?"

"No, sir," Alfred replied, still grinning.

"Jefferson mentioned that you'd lived in Boston, briefly. Did you not work in the dockyards?"

"Nah, I was a coffee shop assistant."

Clark looked briefly surprised. "Then how did you become involved in politics?"

Alfred shrugged. "I met Jefferson before he became President, when I was working as an aide of sorts at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. He liked me enough to invite me to work for him in Washington."

"You're a lucky man," Clark said, smiling.

"I know! I've always wanted to sail somewhere!" Clark looked like he was going to respond, but Lewis's voice rang across the deck at that moment.

"Are you going to help me set sail or not, you two?"

"That's what we've got dockhands for!" Clark shot back.

"What does that matter? Make yourselves useful!" Lewis replied. Clark just chuckled.

"He's always been like that," he said, flashing another quick smile at Alfred. "He thinks a man needs to use his hands to be useful. Heaven knows how he was convinced to be a politician; the Army was a much better fit for him."

"He seems quite serious about his work," Alfred answered, glancing up at the figure of Lewis standing by the ship's wheel.

"Very," Clark agreed. "Now come, we'd better get to work."

_V~-~-~V_

Going by boat was much faster than riding horseback, and it was a matter of days before they reached the site where they would pick up the soldiers from Camp Dubois. Lewis once again disregarded the need for soldiers on what was supposed to be a mission of peace and science, but Clark pointed out that not all the Indians would be open to peace.

Except he didn't call them Indians, or Injuns, or natives. Both Lewis and Clark referred to Nek's people as savages, in both their speech and their journals, something that irritated Alfred considerably, but was to be expected from two men who had both participated in the Indian wars in the western territories.

It was a fine summer's day when they met the soldiers. Most of them were fairly amicable, eager to be among the first to go west, and there weren't more than thirty of them total. Among them was a Sergeant Charles Floyd that Alfred found he had an instant liking for. Boisterous and friendly, he was among the liveliest of the soldiers, and beneath the loud surface was a collected and intelligent man. Though many of the others weren't interested in much more than exploration for bragging rights, fighting, and eventually returning to their families, Floyd saw the scientific merit behind the mission.

Shortly after they established their first stopping point, Camp Wood, just upstream of St Louis, he began constantly pestering Alfred with questions about the mission. Clark was usually mapping the area and Lewis would shoo him away with a pointed glare every time he got too close.

But when May 14th, 1804, rolled along, Camp Wood was left behind, and the expedition had officially begun. Even Lewis was smiling in a rather giddy fashion, though their progress was expectedly slow for the first few days until they got the hang of handling the keelboat.

Alfred found that he was most disappointed about the lack of a crow's nest on the boat, but it only had one sail and was certainly too small for something like that to be practical. But all his dreams of being a sailor had been on some immense boat with rigging, three masts, and a mermaid carved on the bow.

To rectify the situation, he decided that any pole in the middle of an empty deck on a dull river voyage was one begging to be climbed.

"JONES!"

Alfred glanced down, careful to make sure his hands didn't slip. "Yes, Lewis?"

"What in Heaven's name are you doing up _there?_"

"Just checking out the view, sir!"

With one final pull, Alfred hoisted himself onto the horizontal wooden pole that held the (currently furled) sail. Twisting quickly, he maneuvered himself into a seated position, his feet dangling out over the deck below. The view really was stunning: the river twisted before them, disappearing under the cover of trees only to reappear just beyond. Lush forest covered the ground as far as the eye could see, and the clear blue summer sky had only a few white puffs of cloud in the distance. A gentle warm breeze ruffled Alfred's hair, not possessing nearly enough force to make him worry for his safety.

"Get down from there _this instant_, Jones!"

Chancing another glance directly below, Alfred raised an eyebrow at Lewis, whose face appeared to be turning a lovely shade of puce. Of course, that was probably in part from the rather severe sunburn he'd gotten the third day after the voyage had set out, but Alfred laughed down at him all the same.

"But I only just got up here! It really is wonderful!" he exclaimed, turning his face toward the skies again. He heard a low chuckle from below, announcing Clark's arrival on deck.

"I say, Alfred, you really are quite high up!"

"None higher!" Alfred shouted back.

"The lad's goin' to get 'imself killed, mark me words."

"Aye, if it wasn't going up that got him, it'll be coming down."

"He looks pretty happy to me."

The number of soldiers abandoning their spots on the ship to marvel at Alfred's position atop the mast was growing, as was Lewis's anger.

"Fine, stay up there!" the expedition's commander shouted, "But I want no part of it when Jefferson asks why Jones doesn't survive his own idiocy, no part!"

"Certainly, you may forward all my medical bills to him," Alfred called back, grinning cheekily. Lewis, still incensed, spun around to go belowdecks.

A mix of laughter and muttering bubbled up from the crowd at Lewis's departure, but Clark just smiled up the mast, looking unperturbed at the sudden disappearance of his companion.

"You really ought to come down, Alfred," he said kindly, "or our friend Mr. Merriwether is bound to blow his top."

"I'd rather not, sir," Alfred replied. "If it's all the same by you, I think I'll stay up here for a bit."

"Just don't fall," Clark answered, a resigned smile on his face. "I don't particularly feel like cleaning up after." He turned and followed Lewis as well, leaving the assembled soldiers to return to their posts, many throwing envious parting glances toward Alfred's lofty seat.

"Honestly, it's not all _that_ high," Alfred muttered.

_V~-~-~V_

When the 4th of July arrived, the small expedition was west of the Mississippi and making good progress. For years now, the day had been celebrated as a national holiday to mark the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Of course, Alfred remembered it primarily as the day Ben had chosen for him as his birthday.

They had arrived at a secondary waterway on the river, and decided to stop there. It was a holiday after all, and everyone needed a day of rest once in a while.

Clark set off again by himself with his cartography equipment to make another map, Lewis trailing behind a few minutes later for a bit of exploration of the area. A couple of the men also left sight of the ship, but most just set up a makeshift camp on the shore, relaxing and playing poker with pebbles.

Alfred joined them, only to find himself broke after a mere three rounds. The soldiers around him laughed at his predicament while Alfred huffed (he certainly did not _pout, _that was for children).

"Jones, never play for real money," one advised him, grinning ear to ear.

"You guys must be cheating or something," Alfred replied grumpily.

"Us?" another asked, his face contorting into an exaggerated wounded expression. "We would never do such a thing, would we?"

"We wouldn't," the one next to him muttered, "but you certainly would."

The man to Alfred's left, who looked the oldest of the lot, leaned over to speak to Alfred. "It's because you're a terrible bluffer, laddie. Yer hand is always all over yer face."

"It's not my fault," Alfred grumbled.

"Nah, it's not. Yer just the natural type to always say what they feel. Not a bad thing, certainly, but ye'd best stay away from the cards," he said, as if he was imparting the wisdom of the world unto Alfred.

Alfred stood. "I'll be getting back on the boat then, I suppose, seeing as I have no more money." After shooting a pointed glance at the large pile of pebbles before the older-looking man, he turned and headed back toward the keelboat.

When he arrived on the deck, he found Lewis already there, standing by the cannon fastened to the boards on the port side.

"Enjoying your break, Jones?" the man asked, speaking in a kinder tone than Alfred had ever heard from him, especially when spoken in his direction.

"I guess, but the men on the shore just beat me to smithereens in poker."

"Too bad," Lewis replied. After a pause, he continued, "They all cheat, you know."

Alfred grimaced. "I got that," he muttered, then hastily changed the subject. "It's hard to believe that America's already getting close to thirty years old, isn't it?"

Lewis shot him a strange look. "Not really. I was born in '74, you know. America's always been America to me. And you, I should think." Alfred hit his wince. Leave it to Lewis to make him feel old.

"Well… we've gotten so far in that time."

"I suppose we have." Lewis smiled faintly. "Clark is thinking of naming that waterway Independence Creek."

"Really?" Alfred asked, a bit surprised.

"It's a fitting name. I gave my okay," Lewis continued. "What do you think?"

"Of course it's fitting," Alfred replied.

Later that evening, in honor of Independence Day, the ship of the Lewis and Clark expedition fired its single cannon, an event solemnly observed by all soldiers aboard. Alfred chose to watch from his position atop the ship's mast as the remaining cannon smoke curled into the glow of the evening sky, and wished himself a happy birthday.

_V~-~-~V_

It was a day short of a month after the expedition's 4th of July celebration when they met with the first Indian groups on their voyage.

They'd discovered the tribe a few days earlier, according to Lewis, but really the tribe had discovered them, floating in their bulky keelboat westward on the river. Alfred felt his eyes raking the crowd for a sign of a familiar woman with an eagle feather in her braid, but found no one.

At the same time, Charles Floyd was getting dangerously ill. He'd been suffering for the entire length of the journey thus far, though he rarely complained. As a result, he was confined to the keelboat while the rest of the expedition made land. Lewis and Clark decided to set off in search of the Indian tribe to make them their first native ally.

The tribe turned out to be two, the Otoe and the Missouri, and Lewis and Clark met with both, dragging Alfred along with them because Jefferson had instructed him to be present at all ambassadorial meetings.

The Otoe village was a collection of earthen huts, each with its own cooking fire or tied horse. Though they were different from the Algonquin, Alfred's heart clenched at the sight of lithe little children in skins running through the camp and hiding about their mothers' legs. Though Alfred couldn't understand a word of the Chiwere dialect the Otoe spoke, he recognized the signs of the chief's hut when he saw them.

The Otoe men who had come to meet them directed Lewis and Clark in that general direction, where an old man with multiple bead strings hung around his neck stood. He said something none of them could understand, watching expectantly with deep brown eyes while a young man, most likely his son, studied the white men with interest.

When it became clear that none of them was a translator, the chief began signing, waving his hands in a manner almost universal to the native tribes. Thrilled that communication was actually possible, Alfred began signing back.

The chief looked at him with interest, and gave the sign for _welcome_.

"Do you understand that, Jones?" Lewis hissed in his ear, but Alfred just ignored him. It was rude to break contact with a chief once you had established it, and the last thing he wanted was to be disrespectful.

Signing quickly back, Alfred answered, _thank you. We bring you many gifts._ He gestured towards Clark, who carried the bags of presents, which instantly caught the chief's interest. Motioning for his son to come forward, he had the young man take the gifts from Clark. He immediately began sorting through them, pulling out the beads, tobacco, an American flag with its fifteen white stars, and mint leaves (what were _those_ doing in there, Alfred wondered).

The chief nodded his approval and said something. The son took the bag into the hut, and the chief's attention was once again on the foreigners.

_We be friends with you_, Alfred hastily signed. _Large canoe with white men_, he gestured in the direction they'd come from. _We go west. _Alfred inwardly cursed the imprecision of sign as the chief looked at him in slight confusion.

Quickly, Alfred handed over the peace medal, and was astonished when the man actually took it, turning the silver over in his hand with avid interest.

Pointing to Jefferson's profile, Alfred signed, _white man chief. We be friends with you, _he repeated.

Comprehension seemed to dawn on the chief's face, and he smiled a yellow-toothed smile. Alfred fought to keep from wincing, for the first time thinking that perhaps the mint leaves would do someone some good.

They had little else to negotiate. A cordial relationship had been established, and the expedition was grateful to be resupplied with fresh food and animal skins before setting off again.

_V~-~-~V_

The first casualty of the trip came not from an Indian arrow as Lewis had long expected, but from an unanticipated illness.

Charles Floyd, the boisterous soldier Alfred had taken a liking to on the first day, fell extremely ill not long after they left the Otoe and Missouri. Within two weeks, it became clear he was going to die.

Alfred sat beside Floyd's bed, a makeshift structure they'd created on the hill they were camping on for his benefit. Clark was once again away mapping the area, but most of the soldiers were nearby, each contributing to the somber atmosphere of the camp, even if Floyd had made a most miraculous recovery in the past day.

Sitting upright, Floyd looked somewhat normal again (aside from the lost weight and sickly pallor). He managed to flash a weak grin at Alfred.

"It seems I've been spared this time, doesn't it?"

"I guess you have," Alfred conceded.

But the following day, Alfred woke with a sinking feeling and a twinge in his stomach. Floyd looked just as he had before the brief recovery, but his breathing was growing decidedly shallower by the minute. At the familiarity of the scene, Alfred's breath caught.

"I'll be going for a walk."

When he returned, the soldiers were burying Floyd at the top of the hill. Clark, in all his mapmaking wisdom, had named it Floyd's Bluff in honor of the man who fell to an unknown illness rather than dying a soldier's death. The least they could do was bury him with honor.

_V~-~-~V_

They'd moved on, one person less, and still hadn't seen anything but the endless grasslands that had surrounded them for weeks. A bit over two weeks since Floyd's untimely passing, one of the soldiers was exploring the surrounding area when he came running back to the camp, hollering something about an underground squirrel.

Lewis instantly followed him, and the rest of the expedition did the same shortly after, sprinting across the grassland in search of this elusive "underground squirrel".

"Here! It was here!" the soldier exclaimed, gesturing wildly at a hole in the ground, beside a small mound of dirt.

Another soldier eyed the hole skeptically. "Looks like a snake hole to me."

"Snakes don't build mounds," Lewis said absently, studying the hole with an intense expression on his face.

"Perhaps it is a new species," Clark pointed out, joining his partner closest to the hole.

"Nah, I'm certain it was an burrowing squirrel!" the soldier who'd led them there declared.

"Well, it won't come out if we're all shouting at it, now will it?" Alfred snapped at the assembled men. Lewis nodded in agreement, and held up a hand for silence.

The tense atmosphere built for several minutes. Alfred could see that the men were about to snap from impatience, but just then, a nose poked out of the hole.

"There he is!" the original soldier cried, and instantly the nose disappeared again.

"Silence!" Lewis hissed angrily.

Shortly after, the animal reappeared, this time its whole head appearing, eyeing the group with frightened black eyes.

"Looks more like a dog than a squirrel to me," someone muttered. The tiny dog reentered its hole, but Lewis was nearly jumping with excitement.

"I've never seen such a remarkable creature before! We have to capture it, and study it, and write about it…"

He rambled on while Clark looked at the hole with a thoughtful expression. "We should send it back to Jefferson. There are scientists in the states who can study it. We have to keep moving, after all."

Lewis looked a bit disappointed that his project was being taken away, but then another thought seemed to strike him. "How are we going to get it out of that hole?"

"Bait it with food!" one of the soldiers exclaimed.

"We don't know what it eats, you great idiot," another replied, but this didn't deter suggestions.

"Break its burrow!"

"Burn it out!"

"Put a trap at the entrance!"

Clark just kept shaking his head. "We can't have it injured if it's to be studied. A trap is possible, but again, we don't know what it eats…"

"What if we drowned it out?" Alfred suggested. "If it's got water coming at it, it should leave."

A soldier scoffed. "Don't be stupid. It'd just get stuck in its hole that way."

Lewis shook his head. "No, all burrowing animals always have a back way into their holes. If we found the back way, we could easily capture it by scaring it out."

In a few minutes, Lewis had half the men running back to the ship for buckets of water, while the other half combed the grassland in search of the elusive back entrance.

"I've got it!"

Alfred, who was stationed at the original hole to keep watch, glanced up and saw a man some fifty feet away waving his hands.

"It does seem to be of similar construction," Clark said, looking down at the new hole.

"Bring the water!" Lewis called.

The men with buckets circled around the new hole, while the others joined Alfred.

"Put the bag over the entrance," Lewis instructed, and one of the men covered the hole with a burlap sack brought from the ship, formerly used to hold potatoes.

"On my mark… pour!"

In rapid succession, the soldiers poured their buckets down the hole while Alfred prayed that they'd gotten the right one. The last thing he wanted was for some venomous snake or rabid bunny to start attacking them.

The man beside him cried out, and Alfred quickly looked back down to see him clutching a squirming burlap bag, trying to get his arms wrapped around it.

"I've got it! I've got it!"

The cheer that went up from the men echoed across the emptiness of the grassland as the newly-named prairie dog was successfully tied up and carried back to the ship.

That evening, Alfred went down into the hold and unwrapped the little creature, sure it was absolutely terrified and expecting to be bitten, but the tiny thing just poked him with its nose.

"Hey there," he whispered, patting its head.

He was still sitting with it when Clark came down, and looked up to see the man wearing an awfully surprised expression on his face.

"Look, I've made friends with the prairie dog!" Alfred said cheerfully, smiling brightly at the shocked-looking Clark.

"That you have, Alfred," the man replied, whipping out his notebook. "Unusually docile after containment…" he muttered, scribbling on the page. Seemingly in response, the prairie dog hissed at the man, who raised his eyebrows.

"… or not."

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>Complete!<p>

I tried to keep close to historical events for this chapter. Charles Floyd really existed and did die, of appendicitis. They did get the entire expedition out to try and drown a never-before-seen prairie dog out of its hole, and they did meet with the Otoe and the Missouri. Look forward to the secondary part of the expedition next chapter!

As usual, thank you for taking the time to read this chapter! If you would like, I would appreciate hearing any thoughts or reviews you have!


	8. Expedition Part II

Hello again, reader population! Chapter 8 is here!

So. I really meant for the Lewis and Clark expedition to last only two chapters, but this one got a tad bit lengthy... so now it's three.

Thanks so much to WeAllFlyHigh, ShippudenFlower, One-Eyed Lady, In The Mix, Amelia Mills, SamLjacksin, and RasalynnLynx for your wonderful reviews!  
>A thank-you as well to RomericaGO and again to In The Mix, One-Eyed Lady, and RasalynnLynx for your alerts and favorites!<p>

Here you go! I disclaim, and own nothing.

* * *

><p>The prairie dog had been given to one of the soldiers for transport back to Washington, and Alfred found himself envying the creature. The voyage was going just fine, but it was late October, and the chill in the air promised an icy winter ahead.<p>

Not to mention the narrowly avoided crisis they'd had with the Teton Sioux just a month before. Alfred had been ready to strangle Lewis for that one. He'd blown events out of proportion with his temper and already negative attitude toward the natives. He'd also assumed that negotiations with the Teton would go just as well as they had with the Yankton Sioux (whom they'd met shortly after leaving the Otoe), and such an assumption had very nearly cost him.

Luckily, the Teton chief, Black Buffalo, had resolved the situation before either his men or Lewis's could come to blows. His reception of the peace medals had been the most questionable yet, but Clark had written it in his journal as a success.

Never mind that he spelled "Sioux" no less than twenty-seven different ways, something he was incredibly embarrassed to discover and Alfred had laughed at him for.

"Just don't do that on your maps," was the only advice he'd had.

But that was a month ago, and though Alfred was concerned about the actual success of the diplomatic meeting with the Teton (as he was with all of the previous meetings, for that matter) he was currently more concerned with not freezing to death this coming winter. _You've survived Valley Forge with less than you have now, and farther north_, his brain chided. _Don't be such a wimp!_

Alfred wished his brain would shut up and stop making sense.

He was pondering his fate whilst attempting to breathe warmth into his stiff fingers when, in a very similar fashion to when they'd found the Otoe, a soldier returned from scouting to announce that another Indian camp had been spotted.

"Was it close to the river?" Lewis asked, leveling the man with his intense I'm-asking-you-a-question-and-want-satisfactory-answers-now stare.

"Yes sir, on the banks, actually," the man replied.

"Excellent! Men, we're going to meet with these savages, and we're doing so today! So put your backs into it and row!"

Alfred, left in charge of steering while Lewis stalked the decks for motivation, thanked his lucky stars that he was technically a politician, and therefore couldn't be forced to row unless Lewis and Clark themselves did.

_V~-~-~V_

This particular tribe, again in a parody of the meeting with the Otoe and the Missouri, turned out to be two, the Mandan and the Hidatsa. These two, represented in a meeting with the expedition with their two chiefs, were also very hospitable. In a fit of goodwill, they allowed Lewis to build a fort across the river from their main village for the expedition to winter over in.

It was a few days after construction began that Alfred met Charbonneau. He, accompanied by a few Hidatsa, crossed the river in a canoe one morning and became the first European they'd seen west of the Mississippi.

"Hello, _monsieur,_" the man said, immediately identifying himself as French, though he didn't really look like a Frenchman to Alfred (whose only exposure to that demographic was the strange officer with the plumed hat from the Revolution). He wore deerskin clothes and moccasins, all the trappings of a white fur trader making a living out west. The fur trade was incredibly profitable, but usually only for the merchants, not the trappers themselves. Otherwise, Charbonneau (judging by his age) would have retired years ago a rich man.

"A good morning to you as well," Alfred replied, unsure of what the man wanted. The rest of the soldiers hung back and watched as Alfred did what he was paid to do: his job as lead diplomat of the expedition. Lewis and Clark were off doing science-type things in the surrounding area, and had left early that morning in opposite directions to cover as much ground as possible, thus making it his duty to deal with a foreigner.

"I simply came to bid my good wishes to the _Americains _I heard were camping for the winter over here."

Alfred gave the man his most friendly smile in reply. "Thank you for that, Mr…?"

"Charbonneau," he said, smiling slightly as well. "Toussaint Charbonneau."

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Charbonneau, what's a Frenchman like you doing all the way out here?"

The man stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of French. "I am from Canada, _monsieur, _something you would do well to remember. And from your assessment of me when I first arrived, I would imagine you know perfectly well what it is that I am doing here."

This man was sharp, Alfred conceded, to have noticed his study. He supposed it came from a long life of living in the wild. Still, Alfred merely laughed.

"Good catch, Mr. Charbonneau! I meant, what's a fur trapper such as yourself doing living all the way out here with the Hidatsa?"

Instead of replying, Charbonneau turned away, motioning to someone in the small cluster of Indians to come forward. Alfred felt his breath hitch.

It was an Indian woman, still incredibly young (no more than seventeen by Alfred's best guess) and quite beautiful in her deerskin dress, with her long black hair wound over her shoulder. Shyly, she glanced up at Alfred, a tiny smile playing across her delicate features.

She looked strikingly like a young Nek.

Charbonneau didn't seem to notice Alfred's eyes widen at the sight of the girl. "This is my wife," he said, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder, "Sacagawea."

"I see," Alfred said after a moment's pause, finding his voice.

"She was taken by the Hidatsa from her home. I purchased her from them."

Alfred blinked in surprise. So the trapper had married a captured slave? That was a bit unexpected, but good for the girl in the end, he supposed. And if the less-than invisible bump on her stomach was anything to go by, Charbonneau had a few other reasons for not wanting to move around now aside from just needing a place to winter.

"How kind of you," Alfred replied, unsure of what else to say.

"I'm glad you approve," Charbonneau said, nodding firmly. "What is your name, _Americain?_"

"I'm Alfred, Alfred Jones." He stuck out his hand, which the Canadian took in his own heavily calloused one. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Charbonneau." Releasing his grip, Alfred gave a polite bow to the girl beside him, smiling as she blushed when he kissed the back of her hand in true gentlemanly fashion.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Sacagawea."

_V~-~-~V_

When Lewis returned from his scientific activities, his arms full of the notebooks he used in the field, Alfred was surprised to see him take the arrival of Charbonneau and his wife very well indeed, especially when he found out that Charbonneau could communicate fluently with the natives. He was hired on the spot as an interpreter for both while they stayed with the Mandan and Hidatsa and for after they'd continued west once winter was over.

Sacagawea, Alfred found, spoke limited English, but enough to communicate with only a bit of difficulty. To help her, he tried to engage her in as much conversation as possible, and it soon became known that he was the only one of the expedition's members that she would speak to freely.

She turned out to be from the Shoshone tribe, captured by the Hidatsa during a raid and then sold to Charbonneau, who she said was very kind to her.

"So, what're you going to name the baby?" he asked one day, while they were taking a brief walk outside. The snow had stopped, and the midday sun provided some warmth as they made their way around the perimeter of the camp.

"I do not know," she replied. "My husband decides."

"He'll probably pick something French, then…" Alfred muttered. It'd be extremely ill-suited for a Shoshone, which was for sure. "Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?" he asked.

"Girl," Sacagawea said, "Toussaint wants son."

"That's what Nek always told me," Alfred replied, chuckling slightly. "She always said she wished I was a daughter, but instead she found a misbehaving boy. 'Why can't you be more like Amitola,' she'd ask."

"Nek?" Sacagawea asked, clearly confused.

"My mother," Alfred explained. "I spent my childhood with the People."

Sacagawea's eyes widened. "Then… you speak my language?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nah… Nek could, but all I speak is Algonquin, and bits of a couple others I picked up from my siblings."

"Your Nek… she speaks all languages of the People?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah. She was pretty amazing. She took these trips, pretty often actually, all around, visiting my other siblings, and she'd always come back with stories of the faraway places she'd been…" Alfred sighed, remembering when he'd been small, sitting outside her birch bark house in the village, listening as she told him of the vast plains of grasses where the buffalo were plentiful, of the great mountains far west where it always snowed, and of the icy ocean beyond the land where it was never cold.

Sacagawea looked incredulously at Alfred. "Your Nek, her name is Sitala?"

Alfred whirled. "You know her?"

The young Indian woman's face took on an expression of amazement. "Your Nek is she who remembers, remembers for the People! All People know her!"

Alfred's expression mirrored Sacagawea's. "Really…? And here I thought… well… she was just my mother, nothing special… I mean, people looked up to her, but I never thought _that_ much…"

Suddenly, he looked up to meet Sacagawea's eyes. "You look a lot like her, you know."

Sacagawea just stared. Then she shook her head, smiling faintly. "I could not look like Sitala. I do not think so well of myself."

From that day on, her attitude toward Alfred was one of a mixture of friendliness and a sort of soft respect she didn't even show her husband. It left Alfred puzzled, but whenever he asked her why, she would simply tell him in her broken English that he must be special, for Sitala to have raised him.

_V~-~-~V_

Spring couldn't come fast enough for Alfred. Fort Mandan, which had been completed Christmas Eve, had begun to give him a distinct sense of claustrophobia ever since the snows had lessened. The Mandan and the Hidatsa were already out and about, preparing for the coming warm seasons, and watching them only further developed Alfred's itch to move.

Sacagawea's baby was nearing two months old. It was a boy, as Charbonneau had wanted, with a mixed skin tone, dark brown hair and his mother's brown eyes. Also as Sacagawea had said, he'd named the boy, and Alfred swore little Jean Baptiste had tried to bite his fingers off the first time he'd held him. She'd just laughed and said that was the way it was with babies.

On April fifth, Lewis announced that they were going to move on, and expected everything packed and ready in no more than two days. Half the expedition would be going downriver, returning to the states with maps, reports, and scientific specimens for Jefferson. Among them was a letter Alfred had penned, detailing the successes and failures of the trip thus far, as well as his opinions on the tribes they'd encountered, including the Mandan and Hidatsa.

Two days later, as instructed, the fort was empty of necessary possessions, the tribes were thanked, and Lewis and Clark (accompanied by half the soldiers, Charbonneau, Sacagawea, and Alfred) set sail again, heading upriver with a confidence that the headwaters of the Missouri wouldn't be far.

It was a little over two weeks later when Lewis decided to go hunting with one other soldier. He'd left fairly early in the morning, but it was nearing dusk and he still hadn't returned. Clark paced the deck of the keelboat, his anxiety showing through his normally placid exterior.

"Where could he be? He's been gone for hours! Insufferable, irresponsible, idiotic..."

"Clark!" The man stopped his pacing long enough to look up at Alfred.

"You're being stupid! Lewis is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, so stop being such a mother hen!"

"But he's been gone all day! Not even he has ever taken this long to finish hunting before…"

"If something had happened to him, don't you think the other soldier would have come back and told us? But nothing should happen anyway, because that soldier was with him for his protection and assistance! And isn't Lewis a soldier too? He can handle himself well enough without your protective instincts!"

"I'm glad you have such faith in me, Jones." Both men spun around at the sound of the familiar dry voice.

"Lewis!" Clark exclaimed, practically flying across the deck to where Lewis stood, dirt on his clothes, grinning in a somewhat unhinged manner while his partner chewed him out. "Honestly, Meriwether, what are you thinking, being out all day with no word, not once! I was expecting you back hours ago, but _no,_ you just leave me here to worry all day that the leader of the expedition has gone and gotten himself killed—"

"Relax, I'm fine," Lewis said exasperatedly. "But you'll never guess what I found!" Instantly, Clark's expression went from irritation to excitement. "Bring 'er up, men!"

At the general sound of commotion on deck, Charbonneau and Sacagawea, as well as the remaining soldiers, emerged from the ship just in time to see a giant furry… something get hauled up.

"A grizzly bear!" Clark exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to examine the specimen. Now that Alfred looked closer, he could see that it was a bear, albeit a huge one, with silver-tipped black fur and very sharp-looking teeth.

"I've never seen one that big…" Alfred muttered, staring at the grizzly's glassy black eyes as the men crowded around it, touching the fur and rubbing its limbs in collective interest.

Glancing sideways, Alfred could see Charbonneau's expression, indifference tinged with faint amusement. Just beyond him, Alfred caught sight of Sacagawea's distraught face before she spun around and disappeared off the ship, unnoticed by anyone else.

_V~-~-~V_

That night, the air was warm with the scent of a fast-approaching summer when Alfred found that he couldn't sleep. Emerging from his tent, he made his way out of the grove of trees the expedition had camped in, careful to tiptoe lest he wake the others.

Leaving the grove, Alfred found himself in a refreshingly open landscape, with nothing but grass and mountains in the distance. You could lose yourself in a place like this, just wander forever with nothing to stop you, all alone.

So it was to his surprise that he found a certain young Indian woman sitting on a grassy hillside, gazing upwards with an odd expression on her face, a strange mix of peace, worry, and sadness.

"Fancy meeting you out here," Alfred said quietly, not wanting to disturb the stillness.

Sacagawea whirled around, but relaxed when she saw who had spoken. "Ah, Alfred."

Kicking off his boots, Alfred sat down beside her, and trained his eyes upward. The Milky Way glowed brightly, flowing across the sky in one enormous band of foggy lights, the twinkle of millions of stars surrounding it on all sides. "What were you thinking about?"

"The bear."

"You mean the one Lewis killed?" Sacagawea nodded morosely.

"Why?"

"It is sad," she said. "He goes to the Eternal Hunting-Grounds."

"The Eternal Hunting-Grounds?"

"All people go. See?" She pointed upwards at the Milky Way. "The Bridge of Souls."

Comprehension dawned on Alfred. "You mean, the bear's going to heaven? In the stars?"

Sacagawea nodded. "Like bear Wakinu. He was sent away by bear Wakini, away to Snow Country. He found the Bridge of Souls."

"Who's Wakinu?"

"You do not know?" Sacagawea asked, looking genuinely surprised. "You say you live with Sitala for a time!"

"Not your people, the Algonquin, back east of here," Alfred replied. "Nek didn't tell me a story like that."

"Oh."

Tentatively, Alfred asked, "…Could you tell me?"

"You wish to hear of Wakini and Wakinu?"

Alfred nodded, and Sacagawea smiled faintly. Then, eyes gazing upward again at the Milky Way, she began her story.

v~v

_Wakini was a small black bear, who was one day feasting on the contents of an ant hill when a big strong gray grizzly, Wakinu, rudely tried to take some. There was of course a great fight, with many gray and black hairs flying, because no animal can take another's prey. No one knows how, but Wakini overpowered Wakinu, and like a defeated warrior, Wakinu of course had to leave his tribe._

_He made many protests, but they were in vain. He said goodbye to all his familiar surroundings and, blinded by tears, didn't notice that he was nearing Snow Country until his fur was frozen and white, and he found himself in a land where there was nothing but deep night, where he could hear nothing but the sound of his great paws in the snow._

_Above him there was a bright glow of the night sky, and in the distance, Wakinu could see the very fringe of Snow Country and the heavens, with a bright white trail ascending to the sky. Running, Wakinu reached the edge of the trail, and ascended from the ground, as light as a feather, up and up._

_The animals who were awake saw the wide white trail in the sky, and on it, a gray bear. The wise black bear Wakini said, "Wakinu has found the Bridge of Souls, and is on his way to the Eternal Hunting-grounds."_

_Wakinu really was on his way to the Eternal Hunting-grounds. The only thing he left behind was the white snow shaken from his coat._

v~v

"So today, grizzly killed by Lewis is sent up the Bridge of Souls, like Wakinu," Sacagawea finished, still gazing upward.

"Then all that," Alfred said, gesturing to the bright white glow in the sky, "is snow from Wakinu's fur?"

Sacagawea nodded sagely. "That is what my people say."

Alfred hm'd. "Well, that's a good thing for the bear. He's following a path that's already clearly marked, thanks to Wakinu, isn't he?"

The young woman looked surprised. "I… have not thought like that. But…" she smiled again, "I think you are right."

_V~-~-~V_

It was another lazy day on the keelboat, sometime in late May, when Alfred found Clark making his maps on the deck instead of wandering off somewhere as he usually did.

His equipment was complex, that was for sure. Papers covered in lines representing rivers and altitude marks, others had forest blotches and areas labeled for the specific native tribes that lived there, and lines of approximate latitude and longitude (calculated by the stars, of course).

Clark was also the arbitrary name-giver to all the places they encountered. Lewis often voiced his opinion, and some landmarks Sacagawea or Charbonneau knew the native name for, but other than that it was up to Clark. He'd been nervous about the task at first, but now he usually just named things after famous people or whatever was on his mind that day.

Alfred leaned over his shoulder as the man worked, sketching out lines, checking and rechecking them with his compass, and glancing up every so often at the changing direction of the river.

At first, Alfred was just impressed by the precise lines Clark drew, but when he started to really study Clark's script running across the map, a particular name caught his eye.

"The Judith? You're naming that river the Judith?" he asked, tapping the particular spot on the map, and noting with amusement that Clark's face flushed.

"Oh, yes. I thought it was a nice name."

Alfred grinned slyly. "Any particular reason? Is there a certain someone named Judith who makes this name 'nice'?"

Clark blushed again. "Actually… she's a girl back home in Virginia," he almost-whispered. Even quieter, he continued, "I hope to marry her someday, when we get back."

"Really?" Clark nodded, avoiding Alfred's eyes. "Well then, I hope that goes well for you."

"So do I."

_V~-~-~V_

It was only a few days after passing the newly-named Judith River that the expedition encountered its most difficult (land) obstacle yet. The keelboat was at a standstill, and just about the entire crew, including Sacagawea and little Jean Baptiste, was on deck, examining said obstacle.

It was a fork in the river, nothing more, but it presented a rather serious difficulty. When trying to get to the headwaters of the Missouri, one must first _find_ the Missouri. Previously, the expedition had always just done a little advanced scouting and picked the bigger river, a strategy that was working fine until now. Because when you don't have any maps other than the ones you've made yourself, there's little you can do when nobody knows _which_ of the equally-large forks is the right one.

"I say the north fork," one of the men said. "There's mountains over that way, aren't there? And all rivers come from mountains." He glanced at Charbonneau, who nodded.

"There are indeed mountains north of here." The soldier looked smug, as if that proved his point.

It certainly convinced the rest of the men, who all quickly sided with the north fork as well. Alfred even reluctantly agreed that they were probably right.

"Well," Lewis said, "I say we go south."

Immediately, the men were up in arms, shouting down the suggestion in a manner which struck Alfred as rather rude, seeing as they _were_ addressing a superior military officer.

Clark glanced at Charbonneau as well, who merely held up his hands. "I've never traveled by boat this way before, so I am of no help to you here. My guess is as good as yours."

"I say south as well," Clark declared, interrupting the argument, though he looked a little unsure. "What about you, Alfred?" he asked, with a glance begging Alfred to please fix the problem.

Alfred was silent for a moment. The soldiers all turned to look at him, unsure of whether he was one of them or one of the politicians, as his position on the ship wasn't all that clear in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred said, "I would have to say north as well." But before the men could start up again, he continued, louder than before, "However, I think the expedition leaders have the right to decide, as the most educated here. They're the ones hired to run this expedition, not us. If they're wrong, we could always turn back, but haven't we trusted their judgment before, and done well every time?"

A collective murmur rose from those assembled. Finally, one man spoke.

"We agree with Jones."

"Aye, whichever you choose is fine by us."

Clark looked relieved, and shot Alfred a grateful look. Even Lewis seemed to breathe easier at the aversion of a crisis.

Taking charge again, Lewis shouted, "Well? What are you waiting for? Get back to your stations, and turn this thing hard to port! We're going south!"

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>First off, some historical info: the Teton Sioux confrontation-that-almost-was did happen, and was stopped just in time by chief Black Buffalo.<br>Toussaint Charbonneau was very real and picked up at the Mandan/Hidatsa camp along with his formerly-a-slave wife, Sacagawea, who gave birth to baby Jean Baptiste Charbonneau on February 15, 1805. She was considered useful to the expedition because her people, the Shoshone, live at the headwaters of the Missouri, but the expedition was really after Charbonneau for his interpretation skills. She was just a bonus.  
>The grizzly bear, which had never before been described for science, was really killed by Lewis and one other man.<br>The legend of Wakini and Wakinu is a real Shoshone story, explaining the Milky Way.  
>Clark did have a girl back home named Judith, and did name the river after her.<br>There was a fork in the river, and the vote was soldiers for the north, Lewis and Clark for the south. But the soldiers, just as they do here, deferred to Lewis and Clark's judgment.  
>And Clark really did spell Sioux twenty-seven different ways in his reports and journals.<p>

So, I've kept this chapter quite close to real-life events, aside from the fact that Alfred's present. _Next_ chapter, look forward to the conclusion of the expedition!

And, as always, I hope you enjoyed reading! If you've the time, don't be shy to drop a review or comment!


	9. Expedition Part III

I have returned, one late Sunday night, to present to you chapter 9, the third and final installment of the expedition!

Thank you very much to Amelia Mills and In The Mix for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Smiley-sama, SweetDreamer215, Nythtak, Blue Nariko, Jenna A. L. Marie, dragonlover721, and imagination junkie for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Please enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>A mere two months had passed since the expedition had taken the south fork, Lewis proclaimed that they had arrived at the west coast.<p>

"See those mountains?" he asked, waving his arm in a sweeping gesture across the landscape at the peaks before them. "Just beyond them, we will find the vast expanse of the Pacific ocean, with a river flowing down from the mountains into the waters below, through vast plains of green! We'll be the first to reach this point by land! Doesn't it thrill you?"

Alfred agreed, saying it certainly did thrill him, but the doubtful glances Sacagawea kept giving Lewis made him rather uncertain.

It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to be at the Pacific; in fact, he hoped they were there more than anything. The past two months had been rough going indeed. Shortly after choosing the south fork, they'd come upon a set of waterfalls that they had no choice but to carry the boat around. _Carry_. A _boat._ Full up with supplies and scientific specimens and maps. Alfred thanked Jefferson for sending so many men with them, or they certainly wouldn't have made it.

Lewis was still holding out for that elusive Northwest Passage, though Clark had confided in Alfred that he thought it was a load of drivel at this point. Particularly because this river had been their best hope, and a portage that took nearly a month to complete wasn't ideal for trading boats to pass.

If the exhausting boat-carrying hadn't been enough, they'd then found three _more_ forks in the Missouri. Clark named them the Gallatin, the Madison, and the Jefferson, causing Alfred to sigh at the unoriginality of his monikers.

They'd chosen to follow the Jefferson (or rather, Lewis had arbitrarily decided), and had gotten their best news of the month when Sacagawea suddenly got very excited. It had taken Charbonneau's best efforts to translate her rapid speech into English, and it appeared that they'd reached what she called Beaverhead Rock, indicating that they were getting close to the headwaters of the Missouri, where the Shoshone lived.

That was where they were now, and Lewis, determined to be among the first to see the Pacific, decided to lead a scouting group ahead, composed of himself, Alfred, and two other soldiers. He'd wanted Clark to come along, but the older man had stayed behind, reminding Lewis that _someone_ needed to stay behind to mind the boat. The _responsible_ went unsaid.

Alfred sighed again as Lewis continued to go on about the ocean, seemingly intent on talking his ears off. This was certainly the most the man had ever said to him in one sitting. When the mountain became too steep for Lewis to do anything but focus on climbing, Alfred thanked whatever deity was out there for shutting him up.

As they neared the top, the atmosphere of the small group grew distinctly more anxious as they waited with something akin to baited breath (if they hadn't been panting from exertion) for the elusive Pacific to appear over the top of the mountain.

Lewis reached the top first. As Alfred came up behind him, he couldn't see the other man's face, but his silence definitely meant something. Either he was speechless in awe or…

"This is _most_ inconvenient."

Alfred drew up beside the man, and followed Lewis's gaze. "Indeed it is."

Before them was not the blue of an ocean, with a river flowing into it, but yet another several rows of mountains.

Thinking back on it, that was the only time Alfred ever heard Lewis swear.

_V~-~-~V_

"Well, there's no point in going back just yet," Lewis said, gazing balefully at the mountains before them. "Why don't we look around for a bit?"

The soldiers didn't look too pleased with this idea of "looking around," but Lewis insisted, and where the commander went, they followed.

It wasn't long before their "looking around" developed into a search mission for things that Lewis decided they needed as his rant against the ocean's inconvenient placement developed into a monologue of complaints about nearly everything.

"… and if we're going to cross these _damn_ mountains, we're going to need a great many horses, but of course we don't have any of _those_ along, because this expedition is supposedly going by _boat_, not on foot, and none of us have the _faintest _clue how to get over the mountains anyway, and what if beyond them is just _more _mountains? What if those English sailors were lying when they said they discovered the western coast of this idiotically huge continent? I wouldn't put it past them, because _they_ think they're the great _British Empire_, and just didn't want to admit that they couldn't sail there, because these mountains go all the way to _India_ and there is no _Pacific ocean—_"

"Sir! There's an encampment up ahead!"

Alfred's gaze snapped to where the soldier was pointing, and sure enough, a few thin tendrils of smoke were twirling up into the sky. The man's expression was extremely relieved as he watched the smoke, for reasons Alfred could _definitely_ understand. For Lewis, having been interrupted, finally was silent as he too trained his eyes on the certain signs of humanity.

"Indeed there is!" he declared. "Excellent eye, Jamison!"

"Should we approach them?" the other soldier ventured tentatively. "We don't know if they're hostile, and we don't have Charbonneau's wife with us…"

"We have Jones," Lewis said confidently, causing the other two to shoot confused glances in Alfred's direction.

"Glad to be of use," Alfred muttered. Then, more loudly, he asked, "Will we be getting horses, then? These people certainly should have some."

From the expression on Lewis's face, it was clear that he hadn't yet considered this possibility. "Of course we will! Make haste men, we've got to get there before nightfall!"

_V~-~-~V_

The encampment turned out to be home to one group of Shoshone, Sacagawea's people. Despite what, negotiations were not proceeding well at all.

The chief was a fairly young man named Cameahwait. No older than his mid-twenties, his age surprised Alfred. Normally, it was the elders who led the village. He supposed the former chief had died young, leaving his son to run the tribe despite his age. It seemed to be quite the burden, if the stony look in his dark eyes was any indication.

"What do you _mean_, they won't give us any horses?" Lewis hissed. "We've promised goods and everything!"

"Well, the goods aren't anywhere in sight," Alfred said, rather irritated at the commander. He'd been taking his anger out on Alfred due to his own inability to communicate with the tribe. "And how do they know we aren't just going to run off with nearly thirty of their horses and not pay them? Or what if the payment we have to offer isn't good enough? They don't trust white men like that!"

Lewis huffed. "Well, they should. We're a _scientific expedition_, not a bunch of thieves."

"But they don't know that!" Alfred glanced back at the young chief, who was watching the pair with a suspicious gaze, looking increasingly less likely to make any sort of deal.

_Sorry,_ he signed. _Can we return with our small tribe, and gifts, to give for horses?_

The chief leveled Alfred with a slightly less intimidating look. Perhaps it was because Alfred could speak with him that he seemed to respect him a bit more. Then Cameahwait turned and said something to the guards behind him, who seemed to respond rather worriedly. Looking back at Alfred, Cameahwait signed, _I go with you to small tribe._

Startled, Alfred translated. "He wants to come with us, to where the rest of the expedition is.

"Will he give us horses then?" Lewis asked.

"He will." Alfred worried a bit about the lie, and hoped that that _was_ the reason the young chief had decided to come with them: a gesture of benevolence. Judging by his eyes, it wasn't, but Alfred held out hope.

The walk back across the pass to the expedition's camp was a tense one. Cameahwait did seem a bit unsure of himself, trying to follow at the same time as trying to lead, because he was the chief after all. The small Shoshone group also eyed the noisy white men with distaste as they clomped through the underbrush, a stark comparison to their own silent steps.

Alfred was relieved when the tents finally came into view. A cry rang out from the soldier on lookout, and soon enough, a majority of the men were waiting as the little advanced-scouting-turned-diplomacy-committee returned.

Clark, in front, was the first to ask a coherent question. "Is the ocean close?"

Lewis scowled. "No, it isn't. There seem to be many more mountains between here and the Pacific." He lapsed again into angry mutterings, but Clark's attention was diverted to the small band behind them.

"And who might they be?" he asked, addressing no one in particular. Alfred was about to respond when he heard a gasp from the crowd. The soldiers turned toward the source, and Alfred was somehow unsurprised to see a wide-eyed Sacagawea. Be as that may, he _was _surprised by her next words.

"_Brother!"_

_V~-~-~V_

Lewis had been miffed, Clark had laughed, and Alfred had been rather confused until he could manage to get an understandable explanation from Sacagawea. It appeared that Cameahwait _was_ her brother, and she hadn't seen him since before her kidnapping from the camp by the Hidatsa. The young chief had also gone from cold and stony to very welcoming of the expedition, and quite willing to give them a few horses, and a guide to boot.

In the end, they got twenty-nine horses and a mule, as well as an aging fellow they nicknamed Old Toby to lead them safely across the mountains. Much to Lewis's dismay, Toby informed them that there was another range of mountains beyond these immediate ones, and after _those_ they would find the ocean.

It was with many tears on Sacagawea's part and promises to return that Cameahwait and the Shoshones bid the expedition goodbye. And that was the last time any of them saw civilization for a long while.

The cold was bitter, Alfred knew. Valley Forge had been bad, the worst kind of cold that froze your hair and left dustings of frost on your icy blue fingers. But the mountains, he decided were almost as bad.

The wind chilled them to the bone, and despite the fact that he _knew_ it was only September, the air on the peaks gave the illusion of a mid-December gale and gave him cause to doubt their calendar.

Food was also increasingly scarce. There was no fresh game in the mountains, no abundant rabbits or deer like on the plains. Instead, burrowing rodents provided sustenance as their supplies dwindled to nearly nothing. And these soldiers, having never needed to survive on next to nothing, could barely walk in a straight line. Because they were walking, of course. Horses were for carrying their things, leaving the boat near the Shoshone camp empty.

For the first time in his life, Alfred was grateful for his apparent inability to die. He could count his ribs more easily than ever before, he could practically feel the bones in his joints poking out, and he made sure to eat less than anyone else (generally saving his rations for Sacagawea and little Jean), yet he still seemed to have more energy than the entire expedition combined (save Old Toby, who managed to look just fine. He was probably used to it).

On September 22nd, 1805, the group emerged from the mountains, spent and near starvation, hoping beyond hope that the next stretch of the journey would be easier.

"Have you ever crossed those before?" Alfred asked Sacagawea as they made their camp. She shook her head. She too looked frailer than before, though he knew many of the soldiers had tried to be gentlemanly by giving her extra food. She bounced little Jean on her hip and said,

"I have not, but Brother says he once did, when he was small. Shoshone are better at long walks than white men."

Alfred nodded in reply. "That's probably true."

The expedition continued moving west, lacking its earlier fervor thanks to their close brush with death. The general attitude perked up a bit when they arrived at the Colombia River almost a month later, but without a boat, they still walked.

But one day, they arrived at the top of a ridge, overlooking a vast empty expanse before yet another set of mountains. Lewis groaned, but Clark looked elated.

"Are you mad?" Lewis had asked in response to Clark's grin.

"Not at all, Lewis, my good man," he replied, clapping his friend on the back. "Don't you see that peak?"

"I see a lot of peaks," Lewis growled, "be a bit more specific."

Clark pointed excitedly. "That one there! Surely, that's Mount Hood!"

Lewis's eyes widened, but the rest of the expedition was still rather confused. "So those British weren't lying after all," he muttered.

"Lying about what?" Alfred asked, observing the mountain with equal confusion. Sure, it was incredibly large, topped with snow to boot, and its craggy face was quite impressive for a mountain, but Alfred wasn't really in the mood to be impressed by any mountain ever again. In fact, he probably would be happy to never have to _see _a mountain again, a sentiment that he felt was shared. But Clark seemed to be thrilled to see this one in particular.

"In 1792, the British captain who claimed to have sailed up the Pacific coast of the American continent, documented an unusually large mountain a ways inland, which he named Mt. Hood," Clark explained, "and that mountain there fits his description unusually well to be a mere coincidence."

"Which means," Lewis interjected, his eyes lighting up for the first time since their previous false alarm, "we're finally near the ocean!"

_V~-~-~V_

It was two weeks later when Clark proclaimed he could see the ocean. Standing atop a bluff, he was convinced that between the hills ahead, one could make out the blue of water, a different shade than the blue of the sky above. He left his journal out, bookmarked to that day's page. Picking it up to return to the man, Alfred flipped it open, and read Clark's messy scrawl, proclaiming,

_Ocian in view! O! the joy._

Alfred snorted. Whatever hope he'd had that Clark's journals would actually be understood years from then diminished at the sight of his atrocious spelling. No wonder he never let anybody near his books.

But the nearer they got to the elusive speck of blue, the grayer the sky above grew. Lewis was furious at such a setback, but the ensuing storms forced the expedition to stay in one spot for nearly three weeks, just a bit away from the banks of the Colombia.

Most of the men passed the time playing poker, but Alfred wasn't bored enough to risk joining them again and suffering further humiliation. Instead, he had the occasional chat with Sacagawea. He taught her some English, and she told him more stories in return. He sometimes wondered if she was really telling little Jean, because he knew of her fear that he would grow up too much like the white men, but never asked.

"What does the ocean look like?"

Alfred looked up from cleaning his boots, a habit of boredom leftover from the Revolution. He hm'd, pondering the question for a moment.

"You've never seen it, have you?" he asked, already knowing the answer to his question. "Well… it's sort of like a big lake, I suppose, a really, really big lake that goes all the way to the horizon and all the way north and south. And it's got waves too, which are like… like when you throw a stone into a pond, and all those ripples come to shore, except larger. And sometimes, there will be beaches, which are long strips of sand right next to the water."

Sacagawea nodded, looking thoughtful, but still rather confused. "But lakes have shores on all sides. Does the ocean?"

"No… the ocean goes a long way."

"Then you would fall off, if you went to the end?"

Alfred shook his head. "I'm really doing a poor job explaining this… the world is round, see? So you won't fall off."

Sacagawea looked even more confused. "The land is flat."

"No, it's actually round." Looking around, Alfred pointed to Sacagawea's necklace. "See, imagine if the world was like that bead. It's round, but we're all so small on its surface that we don't notice from where we're standing that it actually bends."

She looked a little less confused. "But you say the ocean does not have shores on all sides, so it must end."

"There's not shores, I don't think, because you can go around the land from one ocean to another in big ships. So really it's the land that ends, and the ocean goes around that."

Suddenly, Alfred remembered that sunny day in Boston, when he'd first met the strange diplomat, Arthur. _Yes, I like the ships as well, and the sea. Sometimes it seems like the only thing that's the same between here and England._

"The same thing, huh?"

"Hm?"

Alfred glanced at Sacagawea, who was looking at him strangely. "A friend of mine once said that the ocean was the only thing that was the same between here and his home. That was why he liked it so much." Never mind that Alfred wouldn't really describe Arthur as a _friend_, seeing as their last encounter had ended with him almost getting stabbed…

"So the ocean can connect people from different homes?"

"Something like that," Alfred replied. Sacagawea looked rather wistful.

"I hope we see it soon."

As soon as the storms ended, Lewis had rushed the men to pack up camp and get moving. As they crossed the final hill, he'd let out a very childish cheer and had promptly started shaking hands with everyone in the expedition, babbling all the while about how _beautiful_ the ocean was.

Sacagawea stood with Arthur, Jean in her arms, and gazed out over the expanse of blue before them, smiling faintly. Alfred was yet again struck by how much she looked like Nek, her black hair fluttering faintly in the salty breeze.

He looked out with her, wondering if Nek had ever stood near this very spot, gazing at the ocean that marked the edge of the People's land and thinking of what lay beyond. He wondered if Arthur had been on one of those British ships that had named Mt Hood, and if he had stood on a deck out in that water, thinking of the same thing.

The air was deliciously warm for October, just as Nek had said it would be. The sound of soldiers laughing and rejoicing at the end of their journey faded into the background as Alfred caught the cry of a gull and the distant crash of waves, reminding him of exactly _why_ he'd spent his afternoons on the piers of Boston.

And he smiled, wondering why he'd never realized before just how truly beautiful the sea was before.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Wow. Writing this expedition took way longer than I thought it would. I did enjoy writing Sacagawea, though, so I'll miss her next chapter.<br>Prepare yourselves for the War of 1812, and hopefully more country cameos!

Once again, historical events are followed as closely as possible. Cameahwait was Sacagawea's brother (or possibly cousin, because the two words are the same in the Shoshone language), Old Toby did exist, they did have a false alarm, and Clark's horrid spelling is word-for-word from his most famous journal entry. I'm very thankful to those of you who have reacted so positively to the historical aspect of this fic, as I spend a lot of time researching for it, and hope to maintain the accuracy!

Thank you for reading, and as usual, if you have time, don't hesitate to comment or review! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	10. Returning

I'm back, and I bring chapter 10!  
>Sorry it's been a week, but with final exams coming up, such gaps will most likely become the norm, because no matter how much I would love it to, my English grade doesn't improve because I'm writing fanfiction.<p>

Thank you very much to Amelia Mills, turnGadgets, WeAllFlyHigh, and (especially) Oniongrass for your reviews!  
>Thanks as well to skyspottedshadow, petaltailify197, and Night's Flower for your favorites and alerts!<p>

I disclaim, and own nothing.

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><p><em>The crowd cheered, pushing up close to the sides of the boat, waving to the returning heroes on board, all of whom had survived a journey to the west and the mythic Pacific. Its appreciation of those on board knew no bounds, hailing them across the States and great Americans.<em>

_The soaring feeling of elation at being called a hero bubbled up, making itself known at the surface of his thoughts. Though the cheers were mainly for the pair of men at the prow, he basked in their reflected glory._

_A shift in the crowd, and he caught sight of a ebony-haired woman in a deerskin dress, standing with her hand on the shoulder of a smiling blond boy with chocolate brown eyes. An excited little girl stood in front of them, waving as her blue eyes, reflections of his own, sparkled in the morning sun…_

"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones, please wake up, President Jefferson wants to see you!"

Alfred felt the last threads of his dream slipping away. No matter how he tried to grasp them, to preserve the warm feeling they brought, they disappeared. He opened his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't remember any of it.

Pulling his head off his desk, he met the anxious blue eyes of Peter Wetherby. His mind flickered briefly to another pair of eyes identical to those, reminiscent of a dream, but they too dissolved.

Growling under his breath, Alfred asked, "What now, Peter?"

"I _said,_" Peter repeated, hopping from foot to foot, "President Jefferson wants to see you! And when he sends me to find you, all I see is you sleeping on your paperwork!"

Alfred glanced down at the wrinkled papers where, evidently, his face had been until mere moments ago. He knew they were important in some way, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Grumbling, he rose from his chair, shooting a final venomous glare at the papers that fluttered about as he disturbed them. "Fine, fine, I'm going…"

"Not like that, you can't!" Peter exclaimed. A comb appeared out of nowhere and found its way into Alfred's hand, a handkerchief was thrust into his face, and his suit jacket was placed about his shoulders. "Honestly," the younger man said, "you can't go looking like you've just woken up, or President Jefferson will have your hide for sleeping on the job again! Please, have a bit more common sense, Mr. Jones!"

As Alfred wormed his way out of Peter's clutches, he wondered at how Peter managed to be such a blend of Zach's cheerful clumsiness and his father's collected lawyerly sense. He decided to blame it on the two years he'd spent away from Washington, which had doubtlessly given him time to mature. So much, that he had stayed on the staff even after Alfred returned to his job.

Making his way out of his office, he ignored Peter's final protests and headed for Jefferson's office at his customary leisurely pace. Frowning, he noticed that the shoulders on his coat were looser than they should be, and made a mental note to have the jacket re-tailored. He might as well, since he could write it off as a business expense and bug the money off Jefferson.

The double doors of the President's office were soon before him, and Alfred knocked without hesitation.

"Enter," came the muffled voice from inside, and Alfred obliged, pulling on the carved handle as he had so many times before, and listening to the soft thumps of his feet on thick carpet as he made his way over toward the chair before Jefferson's desk. He sat (though it was more like his knees gave out at a convenient time, not that he would ever admit it) and raised his gaze to meet the eyes of his leader.

Check that, the concerned eyes of his leader. Alfred sat stiffly, trying not to quail under the scrutiny of the President.

"You just woke up," Jefferson said, not a question, but a statement of fact. Alfred nodded warily, wondering if that was _all_ the man had summoned him for, but slightly curious as to how he knew. As if reading his mind, Jefferson continued, "You have an ink smudge on your cheek."

Hastily, Alfred rubbed at his face, willing the offending blot to disappear, and mentally yelling at Peter for not getting it off. Peter's voice replied in his head, _It's not my responsibility to make sure you're presentable! You shouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place!_

Shaking his head to get rid of Peter's voice probably wasn't a good idea. Jefferson's strange look increased in intensity, and Alfred was sure he felt it boring into his skull.

"So, what did you want to see me about?" Alfred asked, praying that the question would temporarily divert Jefferson's attention. "Did the English send us another faulty treaty? Going to put up another embargo? What's it going to be, Canada this time?"

"I would appreciate it if you would stop using such an attitude with me," Jefferson said, a hint of steel in his voice.

"Sorry," Alfred muttered. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "I guess I'm just tired."

He could swear he saw a flash of sympathy in the President's eyes. "Hm. Well, I've been given another act to sign."

Alfred leaned forward again. "What now?"

"They call it the Non-Intercourse Act," Jefferson replied, holding out a packet of papers for Alfred to study. "We're lifting the Foreign Commerce embargo."

"Are we now?" Alfred took the pages, flipping idly through them. The word _England_ caught his eye, and he read closer. "But not with all countries…"

"No, we're excepting England and France, unless they revise their maritime policies. We have a right to neutral shipping, no matter what they believe."

"The Foreign Commerce embargo didn't make them see that…"

"Yes, but that was hurting _our_ merchants. They promise that this will be better-suited for our purposes."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, looking up from the papers. "And those purposes are supposed to stop a war?" Jefferson pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, no matter what you do, you won't be able to stop a war before Madison's inauguration. He'll be inheriting _your_ world problems, and unless he's brighter than I thought, he won't be solving them."

"Well, I can at least make it easier on the fellow," Jefferson replied. "And since when has it mattered to you if I mind what you say?"

"Not often."  
>"More importantly…" Jefferson said, leaning forward, "are you absolutely sure you are all right? You know I don't like to see you ill."<p>

"Stop worrying," Alfred responded. "You'll give yourself more gray hairs than you already have." Jefferson nodded, clearly unconvinced. It wasn't that hard to be, after all. Alfred was far skinnier than the President had ever seen him, with dark smudges under his eyes that certainly weren't ink.

For some reason, it made him more nervous about the welfare of his country than that of the perpetually young man before him.

"Well, do come in if you're bothered. My door is always open to you, Alfred."

Nodding absently, Alfred rose and left, leaving Jefferson watching his retreating back with the same worried look on his face.

_V~-~-~V_

Three days passed after the signing of the Non-Intercourse Act, and Thomas Jefferson was out of office. James Madison, a man Alfred was torn between respecting and wanting to shout at, was inaugurated on March 4th, 1809.

Since Jefferson was done, Alfred had no further obligation to stay at the White House. The now-former President offered to get him a post in the new administration, but Alfred declined, saying that he wanted to work in something other than politics for a few years.

…Which was how he found himself standing outside a small corner bookstore in Washington, DC, wondering if they had a job available, Peter standing beside him because he had nothing else better to do.

Alfred pushed open the door, a small jingling noise announcing his entrance. "I'll be out in a minute!" came a shout from the back of the store. Alfred waited, Peter beside him hopping from one foot to the other again, looking around at the many dusty shelves filling the small wood-paneled room. Oddly enough, its smell reminded Alfred of Ben's office back in Philadelphia. He barely had time to wonder vaguely if that was a good omen before a stack of books emerged from a door in the back of the store.

"How may I help you?" the stack inquired. Walking closer, Alfred lifted the top two thirds of the stack out of the arms of a rather short man, who looked at him gratefully through a pair of round glasses. "Much obliged, young man. Why don't you put those over here, yes, right by this shelf… oh, but take off the top few, those belong in that section over there…" he gestured to another shelf across the room, and Alfred dutifully toted the books in that direction.

The man wiped his brow. He was definitely short, despite the fact that his boots had heels. He wore a pair of long brown pants with suspenders strapped over the shoulders of his long-sleeved white shirt. Alfred noted the thin comb-over he'd organized his brown hair into, and a shaving nick on his right cheek. The man smiled.

"What can I get for you? Newspapers, British periodicals, or records? What about science and math texts? Religious pamphlets? Fiction?"

"I was actually wondering if you had a job opening," Alfred said, setting his stack down. The man's eyebrows shot up.

"Really now? You and your friend?"

"No, just me. Peter's here for… what did you call it?"

"Moral support," the other supplied helpfully.

"Ah. How nice. Do you have any previous jobs? Why do you want to work here?"

"I was a farmer first, a soldier, and an aide at the White House under President Jefferson most recently, sir."

The man's eyebrows shot up further. "Quite qualified. Why did you pick a book shop?"

Alfred shrugged. He didn't really know himself, only that he wanted to stay in Washington, if at all possible. "It's as good a place as any. And I like books, so why not?"

"Hm," the man said. "You're hired."

"Really?"

"Do you not want the job?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, of course I do, I just wasn't expecting—"

"You get started now. Sort the fiction books into alphabetical order by title, please." Alfred glanced at Peter, who shrugged helplessly, but from the grin on his face, he looked like he was hiding laughter. Alfred shot him a glare, and sighed, then made his way over to the designated shelf and began working.

_V~-~-~V_

While Alfred settled in at his job at the bookshelf, he learned a several things. The first few were about his employer.

He spoke in short, clipped sentences not because he was unintelligent. In fact, he was one of the smartest people Alfred had encountered. But he was a Hungarian immigrant, fairly new to speaking the English language, though he could read it fluently. He'd changed his name upon coming to America, becoming Kris Rudolph, and refused to tell Alfred what his name had been before.

The next few were about governments during transition periods. Initially, Madison was reluctant to do anything, but that time was short-lived, and followed by many rapid legislations being passed, the first major one known as Macon's Bill, which basically rewrote Jefferson's Non-Intercourse Act, authorizing the president to reopen trade with France and England.

The last were possibly the most important to Alfred, and they all concerned Peter. He visited the bookshop daily, getting along swimmingly with Mr. Rudolph right off. Apparently, he had nowhere else to go at the moment, so he even began living with Alfred in his small bedroom above the store that he earned in addition to a small salary.

One day, Peter announced that he was going home, and Alfred realized he had no idea where the younger man was from.

"Boston," he replied cheerfully. "My father's law practice is there."

"Really?" Alfred asked. "How do you like it there?"

"It's quite nice. A bit smoky and crowded, but nice."

Alfred considered continuing for a moment, but finally gave in to his curiosity. "Do you know a coffee shop called St. George's?"

Peter thought for a moment. "No, I can't say I do. Why?"

"The proprietress is an old acquaintance of mine," Alfred said. _Quite possibly _was, _not is_, his brain supplied before he had time to squash the morbid thoughts, however true they might be.

Peter made a noncommittal noise in reply. "My mother will be arriving in a few days for me. She doesn't get out of Boston much, but she's always wanted to visit the capital. Father figured this was the best opportunity." Suddenly, he flushed. "And don't you dare say things about me needing my mother to come take me home, because I don't! I could get to Boston perfectly fine myself!"

Alfred laughed. "No, you couldn't. You told me yourself that you got lost nearly every day during the first week you started visiting!"

"That's because Washington's streets are confusing!"

"They're in a grid pattern, what's confusing about it?"

"There are too many corners and alleys!"

"What do you expect? You can't build buildings without corners!"

"They could at least have street signs, or something! How am I supposed to find King St. if it's not even labeled?"

"You've lived here for nearly seven years, figure it out!"

"Can you both please be quiet? I'm trying to read."

The pair glanced up, catching sight of a faintly annoyed Mr. Rudolph standing in the doorway, a book in his hand.

Turning to Peter, he inquired, "When is your mother coming?"

"Four days, sir," the younger man replied.

Mr. Rudolph nodded sharply. "Welcome her. Then you can go home, and there will be no more arguments… or freeloaders."

"I am not freeloading! I _do_ help out!"

"… Yes you are. Kindly be quiet and stop distracting my employee, or he will get no pay either." A pointed glance was sent in Alfred's direction before the balding man disappeared once again into the back room.

Grumbling, Alfred went back to work, and Peter excused himself to, "go wandering through the streets, where I can look like I have something to do instead of getting accused of _freeloading_."

_V~-~-~V_

Four days later, Alfred was alone in the bookshop. It was early afternoon on a Sunday, meaning that Peter would be returning to the bookshop sometime soon. A glance at the grandfather clock in the front room told Alfred he was late.

Mr. Rudolph was also out, taking his weekly half-day off. Sunday was the one day he felt comfortable leaving Alfred in charge, because the bookshop wasn't actually _open_.

Alfred sat in the back room on his favorite cushioned chair, a book in his lap and coffee on the table beside him. He'd acquired a taste for it while working in the White House, and Mr. Rudolph always kept some handy, being an avid drinker of the stuff himself.

Just as he was preparing to settle down for at least an hour (or until whenever Mr. Rudolph returned and asked him to do his job), he heard the distinct tinkle of the bell in the store, announcing the arrival of a customer that wasn't supposed to be there.

He sighed and stood, reluctantly leaving his book and coffee behind so he could shoo the person away. Mentally preparing his polite speech as he went, he paused in the doorway when he caught sight of who exactly had intruded.

It was a woman, probably two or three inches shorter than he was without the giant pastel-green plumed hat she wore on her head, like a lady of high society. Her floor-length dress was a similar color with darker green pinstripes, and as she stepped nearer to the first bookshelf, he could hear the click of heeled boots on the wooden floor.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Excuse me, ma'am? We're closed today, so I'm going to have to ask you to leave…"

At the sound of his voice, the woman turned, a production involving a great swishing of her skirts, a white-gloved hand clapped on her hat. She looked older than he had guessed from her back, somewhere in her early forties. "I'm terribly sorry," she began, in a voice of an educated woman befitting of her dress, tinged with a Boston accent. "I was told to come here, you see…"

Her eyes met Alfred's, and she froze, her mouth still open, but with no words escaping. Alfred looked back, meeting her gaze as evenly as he could, and he suddenly realized that her eyes were blue, a shade incredibly similar to his own—

"Alfie?"

His heart leapt to his throat, whatever coherent thoughts would have formed swept away by a flood of memories, but most importantly by the image of a little girl with the same blonde curls he saw peeking out from beneath the green hat of the woman before him, a little girl with sparkling blue eyes that had cried for him when he removed himself from her life for what he hoped was forever but secretly wished wasn't, the only person he'd ever let call him _Alfie—_

"E… Emeline?"

The woman's eyes widened even further, and the book beside the warm coffee in the back room sat forgotten as she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, her hat having flown off and landed on the floor a few feet away in her rush.

Strangely, the only thing Alfred could think of was that Emeline still smelled the same, after all these years, and the feeling of nostalgia threatened to overwhelm him as he rested his chin on her shoulder, Emeline in her pinstripe dress crying in his arms.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred stared at Emeline, not trusting himself to speak. How could he not have realized before? The evidence had been there all along, written clearly in Peter's face. Had he really been so consumed with seeing Zach in the young man that he'd neglected the obvious similarities?

"So Peter is… your son?"

Emeline nodded. Alfred sat across from her at the small dining table in the back room that doubled as his desk. He'd made more coffee after throwing out his previous cup that had long turned cold. Emeline had recovered her hat, but the streaks on her face ruined her highborn image, but you couldn't deny that she was absolutely ecstatic.

Another thing Alfred couldn't deny, no matter how hard he tried, were the lines on her face. Tiny creases around her mouth, dents at the corners of her eyes, and slight folds on her forehead were the minute imperfections he sought, sending pangs of regret coursing through him with each now blemish. They were constant reminders of the vast gap between himself and the once-girl before him, a crack that had grown into a canyon in what to him seemed like a mere few years, but represented a majority of her life.

Emeline was also studying him, with that gaze he had always known would grow to be intelligent. There was sadness there too, mixed with no small amount of wonder.

"You've grown," she said softly.

"Not as much as I should have," Alfred replied, choosing to focus on his coffee cup instead.

"You've always been special; even Ma and Pa knew that." Alfred felt a gloved hand reach out, gracing the top of his own with a feather-light touch. "_Witchcraft_," she snorted in a very un-ladylike manner, "I've not heard such drivel since."

"What other explanation is there?" Alfred asked.

Emeline shrugged, looking rather unconcerned. "You're just special. Did you never notice the way you drew people to you?" She sighed. "I think it would be lovely to feel twenty forever."

Despite his best efforts, Alfred couldn't keep his voice from cracking. "It's not."

Before Emeline had time to say anything in reply, the tinkling of the door opening echoed through the empty bookshop. "Alfred? I'm back!"

At the sound of her son's voice, Emeline leapt up. "Peter!"

Running feet pounded toward the back room, and Peter practically threw himself at Emeline. "Mother!"  
>"I missed you Peter, so much, oh just look at how you've <em>grown<em>…"

When the young man finally detached himself from his mother's arms, he glanced toward Alfred, who was clearing away the coffee cups. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Oh, not so very long, and Al—"

"I kept her company. Your mother is a wonderful woman, Peter," Alfred said, effectively interrupting Emeline. It wouldn't do for her to call him _Alfie_, of all things, in front of Peter, who knew full well nobody was allowed to call him that. Plunging on despite Emeline's glare, Alfred said, "We had time to get acquainted over coffee. She told me some interesting stories about you I'm sure you'll love to hear."

The effect was instantaneous. Peter whirled on Emeline, flushing brightly. "Mother! What did you tell him?"

"Nothing too bad," Alfred said flippantly, waving a hand and again cutting Emeline off before she could begin. He was, after all, the more practiced liar. "Why don't you two go out to eat or something? I'm sure you could use some family time after all these months apart."

Peter was instantly on board with the idea, attempting to drag Emeline out the door, chattering brightly about all the places they could go and things he just _had_ to show her in Washington. Alfred turned his back on the scene, going back to the dishes, pointedly ignoring the glare he knew Emeline would be sending him, but the sound of her skirts swishing out the door convinced him that she'd given in for now.

But Emeline had always been persistent. Alfred knew she'd return demanding answers he would rather not give, but she would demand them anyway as his little sister.

Alfred paused in his washing. Little sister. And Peter was her son. But that would mean…

"I'm an _uncle!"_

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Another chapter complete!<p>

Because the last three have been so history-heavy, I decided to take more of an Alfred-oriented-emotional-plot-development route, plus a bit more history, for this chapter. My apologies to all you history fanatics, you'll have to get your history next chapter.

Some historical background: the Lewis and Clark expedition returned in 1806, and they were hailed as national heroes.  
>The Foreign Commerce embargo mentioned briefly restricted American ships to only sailing to American ports, and foreign ships could deliver but not pick up cargoes. It was Jefferson's attempt to prevent war with Britain, as well as put them under economic pressure so they would have to revise their maritime policies that allowed them to freely board any American ship in search of British deserters, as well as seize any ship engaging in trade with Britain.<br>The Non-Intercourse Act, signed March first, 1809, legalized American trade with all countried except Britain and France (because Britain hadn't changed its policies, and France was going all Napoleon on Europe) since the embargo was hurting American merchants too much.  
>James Madison was inaugurated on March 4th, 1809.<br>Macon's Bill was passed May first, 1809, and authorized the president to reopen trade with Britain and France. It also authorized the president to impose trade restrictions on either country if the other modified its trade policies before March 3rd, 1811. For example, if one country agreed to allow American commerce to operate without interference, the other had to match these concessions within three months or the president would be authorized to suspend trade with the offending country.

Canada is also scheduled to appear... sometime soon. I'm still working that out (thank you, Oniongrass, for your helpful tips!).

Per the usual, if you have the time, any comments or reviews are always greatly appreciated!


	11. Coffee and Smoke

My humblest apologies for taking so long to write this, but it was surprisingly difficult. Add final exams to that, and my time is very limited.

Thank you to ShippudenFlower, Oniongrass, Athena's-Dragon-138, anonomas russia fan, Georgia pride, petaltailify97, and Amelia Mills for your wonderful reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Huntress9894, MonseHunter05, goldchild2, Kris Phantom, Krystie T, and again to Athena's-Dragon-138 and petaltailify97 for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Please enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

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><p>Alfred had gotten quite comfortable in the small wooden space that was Mr. Rudolph's bookshop during the two-and-then-some years he'd been working there, yet it boggled his mind that the man had managed to fit so damn many in such a small space, and manage to remember precisely where all of them were.<p>

Pulling a rather thick tome off the middle shelf, Alfred was unprepared for the sudden amount of dust that billowed up around him.

Alfred sneezed, sending up a larger puff of dust from the little-used back corner of the bookshop. He cursed mentally, knowing he already wasn't doing well. He didn't need to add allergies to the growing list of maladies he'd accumulated since June.

The war that Jefferson had worked so hard to prevent had happened anyway, and Alfred found himself fully supporting it. The British hadn't listened to the American government's many attempts to get them to stop commandeering American ships, and in an even more extreme affront, had begun taking American sailors for their own.

To make matters worse, both Massachusetts and Connecticut refused to fight, both their state governments condemning the war, successfully splitting popular sentiment. Then came Hull's cowardice at Detroit, where he had surrendered 2200 men to the British without firing a shot and Van Rennselaer's ill-fated attempt at convincing his New York militiamen to invade Canada, in which the men had flat-out refused to cross the border, an occurrence which repeated itself no less than three months later with another group of men.

And since the war's commencement, Alfred had yet to feel well enough to help the cause.

"Are you quite all right, Jones?"

Glancing up through tearing eyes, Alfred caught sight of the bespectacled Hungarian store owner, peering at him from around the corner of the shelf, a safe distance from the dust. He waved him off, something that served to disperse the dust even further and send him into another sneezing fit.

Mr. Rudolph shrugged, as unconcerned as ever about the various doings of his one employee, and moved off into the backroom, presumably for another cup of coffee. "Please don't sneeze all over the merchandise. And check if we have another copy of _The Coquette_, it should be on the front shelf."

Alfred nodded, though the other man had no way of seeing him, and replaced the book in his hand on the shelf, making a mental note to clean the area later. Making his way to the front of the shop, he began his search for _The Coquette_, hoping that Mr. Rudolph had actually put it where he promised he would.

But as he crouched on the floor before the shelf, he couldn't help but remember the day that his long-lost sister had come sweeping through the door. He'd had barely a few days with her before she left again, returning to Boston.

He was still surprised that she'd managed to convince him to go with her.

_Alfred stood before the bookshop, the trunk at his feet filled with everything he called his own, waiting for Emeline's arrival._

_She and Peter were returning to Boston. He'd told Emeline, at her own insistence, everything that had happened to him since leaving New Haven all those years before._

"_You clearly need some time to relax!" was her immediate reaction. "You're going to be the death of yourself running about as you have been, meddling in politics and taking extraordinary trips! It's about time you come home!"_

_Peter had also liked the idea, having been told that Alfred's parents were old family friends of Emeline's, and that the two had met once before years ago. For Alfred, it was more than just a respite: it was the chance to have a home again, with people he knew he loved, a luxury he knew he'd depraved himself of after running away._

_The carriage pulled up in a cloud of dust and crunching gravel. Mr. Rudolph hadn't bothered to come out, merely nodding in response to Alfred's quick goodbye and returning to his book. The driver leapt out, snatching up Alfred's trunk and ushering him into the cabin, where Emeline and Peter were already seated, dressed in their traveling clothes._

_The road out of the capital was a blur, Emeline's small talk fading into the background as Alfred watched the now-familiar buildings pass by. He was still looking forward to returning home (if not the long journey it would take to get there) when they passed the city limit._

_The instant the city changed to countryside, Alfred was seized with a sudden panic. Breathing quickly, he peered out the back window, his heart rate increasing with the distance between him and the capital._

"_I have to go back."  
>Emeline, still talking, was silenced immediately. As if unsure of what she heard, her eyes widened. "You must what?"<em>

"_I have to go back, to Washington."_

"_Why?" Peter asked. "We've only just left!"_

_Alfred chose to ignore him in favor of speaking only to Emeline. "Em, remember when I told you about the reasons I go places?"_

_Her eyes widened a fraction, and she gave a slight nod, the feather on her hat bobbing as she did so._

"_Well, those… reasons say I have to go back. Something's going to happen there, in Washington, something important. I _need_ to be there."_

"_You'll miss seeing Mother."_

_Alfred winced. Emeline had told him, during one of their many discussions about him, that Franklin had died several years ago. Sarah was still holding on, but she was very near her deathbed. Words hadn't been needed to say that she was one of the main reasons Alfred was returning._

_But by now, Alfred was certain he was hyperventilating as the buildings of Washington began to fade into the distance. The pull to Boston was strong, but that was merely his own emotional reasons._

_Washington, he knew, was something far greater._

_Taking a deep breath, Alfred yelled for the driver to stop._

_V~-~-~V_

His workday at the bookshop complete, Alfred finished the process of locking up, his only real responsibility. Shrugging on his favorite brown jacket and a pair of gloves, he closed the bookshop's heavy front door and began making his way toward a particular coffee shop. He had someone to meet.

Shivering as the December chill attacked his face with a vengeance, Alfred moved as quickly as he could. With any luck, he'd be out and back before the evening's promised snowstorm could have a change to start in force. Alfred would swear he'd never covered those four blocks in a shorter time since.

The familiar ring of a bell announced his entrance. Brushing the white dusting of ice he'd received off his shoulders, Alfred glanced around the dim room. A collection of square tabled covered the main room, with a high table resembling a bar in the back. Squat chairs with ratty mahogany-colored cushions were mostly full of patrons, but it was a corner booth that drew Alfred's attention. As he approached, the man seated there rose, smiling, and extended a friendly hand.

"How have you been, Alfred?"

Alfred grinned broadly as he reciprocated the gesture. "Not bad, Mr. Clark."

William Clark, giving Alfred a quick once-over, raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, but accepted Alfred's answer. "Won't you have a seat? I told the proprietress to stop by once I'd been joined by another customer… here she comes now."

She turned out to be a fairly young lady, with light brown hair tied back in a loose knot, and a friendly southern accent.

"What can I get y'all?"

"A cheese danish, if you please."

"Just coffee for me," Alfred said, flashing a smile. The pair sat in silence as she left the table, Alfred leaving Clark to tell him why he'd set up this meeting.

Alfred was aware that the older-looking man had been in and out of Washington since the expedition's return. Having been named America's Indian agent for the west and the brigadier general of the new territory's militia, he'd been a busy man, but Alfred had no idea what he was doing with all those new titles.

Clark finally sighed, breaking the silence. "My wife and I would like your thoughts on something."

"Sure, anything—" Alfred began, but paused as the rest of the sentence sank in. "Wait, your _wife?"_

Clark flushed faintly. "Yes, I proposed to Judith as soon as I could when the expedition returned."

Remembering a certain river out west that now bore that name, Alfred nodded in recognition. "So, you got married and I wasn't invited?"

"It was a small affair, just for family. And I couldn't find you at the time, anyway."

Alfred snorted, shaking his head in mock reproach. "That's no excuse, old man, no excuse. But what was it that you wanted?"

"Ah, yes, that…" Clark muttered, but the proprietress returned at that moment with his danish and Alfred's coffee. He broke off a piece of his pastry and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "We're thinking of taking custody of little Jean Baptiste, and Lisette as well."

"Sacagawea's children?" Alfred asked, surprised, "Why?"

"I recently received word that she died at Fort Manuel. I haven't the faintest idea of what Charbonneau is doing, or even if he's still alive, but her children are in need of a more stable home than they could have wandering the country with a trapper."

Alfred was silent, staring into his coffee, thinking of a young girl who resembled Nek so strongly and a story about bears. Quashing the mixed sadness and dread that threatened to make itself known, he muttered, "The Eternal Hunting-grounds, huh…"

"Pardon?"

Alfred shook his head. "It's nothing. So, why do you need my advice? If you think they can have a good home with you, your decision should already be made."

"Yes, but that's just the problem. Judith and I still have Meriwether to think of—"

"Lewis? Why do you have to worry about him?"

The lines on Clark's face became more pronounced, weariness seeming to radiate from his abruptly still form. "Not Lewis," he said quietly. "Our son, Meriwether. Lewis died three years ago."

Alfred let out a choked laugh, running a hand through his hair. "My God, Clark, must you take your time telling me all this? Is there anybody else dead whom I should know about? Any other children you've been keeping secret?" Clark just shook his head, and Alfred watched his gray hairs catch the dim light of the coffee shop.

In a more subdued tone, Alfred continued, "If taking in two more children wouldn't be problematic for your family, I would. After all, you're offering them a chance not many get."

Clark nodded, relaxing a bit at Alfred's words. "I know that. I suppose I just needed someone other than Judith to confirm it for me."

The two continued, chatting idly about anything they could think of, until nearly all of the patrons had slowly dispersed and the proprietress began cleaning the tables. Clark stood first.

"It's been a pleasure seeing you again, Alfred."

"Likewise," Alfred agreed, nodding as he too stood.

Suddenly appearing struck by a thought, Clark asked, "Would you like to meet my wife and son? They'll be visiting the capital soon."

"Of course I would! Just say when."

Clark smiled softly, bidding Alfred goodbye, and taking his leave first. Alfred took his time donning his jacket and gloves, dreading the minutes he would have to spend walking back to the bookshop in the frozen night air. When the proprietress began shooting him pointed glances, he finally took a bracing breath and stepped outside.

_V~-~-~V_

A few weeks passed, Christmas coming and going without much celebration on Alfred's part. Mr. Rudolph had gone to church for nearly the entire day, but Alfred had decided to stay home, wondering if Emeline made Peter attend as Sarah had wanted them to.

A letter was received from Clark, telling him to meet outside his workplace in a few days time, and to dress nicely because Judith was easily impressed by finery.

Unfortunately, Alfred had none of that, so he settled for one of Mr. Rudolph's suit jackets that probably wouldn't have fit him a few years ago, but would suit his purposes thanks to his recent loss of weight.

As Alfred made his way to Clark's workplace, he stopped briefly to buy a newspaper. Shaking open the front page, he scowled as once again, Madison's name graced the headlines, along with a litany of other month-old stories of British warships and failed American offensives. Really, their Navy was quite awful in comparison to England's. Alfred could almost _see_ Arthur's smirk if he'd ever had the chance to mention that to the obviously proud once-sailor.

His mind lingering for a few more moments on the Englishman, Alfred wondered what he would look like now. Certainly rather old, if he was still alive. Shaking off the mental image of a sixty-year-old Arthur with a quiet shudder, Alfred focused instead on paying attention to where he was walking. He wouldn't want the embarrassment of passing the building or getting run over by a carriage or something.

Arriving at Clark's building, Alfred found the man already waiting outside, talking to a pretty blond lady who held the hand of an equally blond little boy. Tucking his newspaper under his arm, Alfred waved to catch his attention, and quickened his speed to a jog.

"Sorry if I'm late. Have you been waiting long?" he asked, directing his question to the lady, presumably Judith. He had to admit, she was quite pretty. How she fell for Clark was a mystery to him, until he recalled the small national hero detail.

She smiled demurely. "Not long at all, Mr. Jones. My husband has told me much about you."

"All good, of course?" Alfred laughed, grinning broadly.

"Of course."

It soon became clear that Clark was content to let his wife do all the talking, but Alfred found her conversation, while well-spoken, dreadfully boring. They'd covered life in Washington, Alfred's job, steered clear of any real war politics, and were just finishing up remarking on the weather when Judith was abruptly distracted by someone else emerging from the building.

"Mr. Williams!" she called, daintily raising a gloved hand to catch this someone's attention. "Mr. Williams, over here!"

A figure at the top of the steps turned to look at their small group. Quickly disengaging himself from whomever he was walking beside, he trotted down the steps toward Judith.

From a distance, he appeared nothing special. But the nearer he got, the clearer it became that Alfred was looking at what could be his own reflection.

The stranger seemed to notice this too, stopping a good ten feet away to stare. But his momentary incredulity gave way to something closer to wondering suspicion, his eyes narrowing as they met Alfred's.

"Mr. Clark," he said, speaking in an extraordinarily quiet voice, "who is he?"

"Ah, this is Alfred Jones. He traveled with my expedition some years ago," Clark replied, introducing himself into the conversation for the first time since their brief greeting. The other man seemed to relax a fraction at that, his shoulders easing ever so slightly, but his gaze was still wary.

"Alfred, this is Matthew Williams, a Canadian delegate. Though we don't work directly together, we're previously acquainted, and Judith is quite taken with him." The man, Matthew, seemed to blush slightly at that.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones," he said softly. There was a strange lilt to his voice that Alfred couldn't quite place, perfect English yet faintly French-sounding all the same.

"Please call me Alfred," he replied, turning his grin on the Canadian, "Mr. Jones is so stuffy." Matthew nodded politely and turned to Clark, engaging him in light conversation instead, simultaneously giving Alfred an excuse to study his face.

The two of them definitely looked similar at first glance, but there were a few minute details that Alfred noticed right away (possibly, he thought, because he was the party being compared, and he was _quite_ familiar with his own face). The other's hair was longer, and slightly curly, with a single curl dangling in front of his face that looked equally as untamed as Alfred's cowlick. His eyes, though as similar in shape and size as their two faces were, were a darker, almost purplish blue. He was also about the same height and age, appearance-wise. Alfred thought they could have passed for twins.

Matthew had noticed his study and was doing the same, if the slight pink creeping up his cheeks was any indication. Struck by a sudden sense of familiarity he couldn't quite figure out, Alfred asked, "Can I call you Mattie?"

The other looked rather surprised at the request. "Eh? I guess not…"

"Great! I'm sure we'll get along fantastically!" Alfred exclaimed, suddenly recognizing the familiar sensation from another chance acquaintance on a Boston pier. He shook Matthew's hand vigorously, and was surprised at the quick response he got and the small smile he earned. Despite his shy exterior, the Canadian had a strong grip.

"I'm sure we will," he replied, his deep blue eyes losing their final traces of suspicion as the pair started talking.

_V~-~-~V_

In the following months, Alfred began to spend as much time as possible with Matthew, showing him around the city. No matter that he was supposed to be the enemy; he couldn't keep that train of thought alive for long when standing beside his almost-twin. He visited the bookshop even more frequently than Alfred visited his and Clark's office building (though Clark was at his home in Virginia half the time anyway).

Alfred was taking a break from shelving in the bookshop one day when Mr. Rudolph stuck his head in the door.

"There's a man here to see you. He says he's the President."

"The _President?"_ Alfred was out of his chair in an instant, brushing past Mr. Rudolph in his hurry to the front room. Sure enough, there was the curly powder wig and the rather pinched face of the fourth president. War had definitely taken its toll on the young man who'd been elected nearly six years before.

"Are you Alfred Jones?" he asked, drawing on the authoritative voice that Alfred had grown used to hearing in all of his presidents.

"That'd be me, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here to offer you a position on my staff."  
>Alfred blinked. "With all due respect sir, you didn't want me six years ago."<p>

Madison frowned slightly. "At the time, I had assumed you were merely a lackey of Jefferson. However, the remaining staff assures me that you played a key role in the success of his administration."

Alfred felt the need to discuss a few things with this staff. "I'm afraid I'm being overestimated, sir. I was an average aide who fell asleep at his desk more often than was helpful."

Madison's skepticism was returning slowly. "Yes, but during your waking hours, I have heard you were incredibly good. And with Napoleon falling from power, the war is coming to a close in Europe. Talks of peace beginning soon, and I found that those were your specialty."

"With natives, not uppity British pigs in wigs," Alfred replied, a bit harsher than was strictly necessary. "I'm also very happy with my job here. I left politics for a reason, and have no desire to go back."

"As long as you're certain. Such an opportunity won't be presented again."

"If you really need me, you'll ask," Alfred said, abandoning all verbal politeness. "Have a nice day, Mr. President."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred remembered the date as well as he remembered his own birthday, but it came to mean something much closer to his death.

On August 24, 1814, Matthew was over for coffee at the bookshop while Mr. Rudolph was out somewhere, probably on one of his book errands. The pair of them were chatting in the back room when Alfred felt a sudden brief stab of pain in his chest. It was gone in an instant, but Matthew looked concerned.

"It's nothing," Alfred said, waving him off, but the pain returned, fiercer this time, doubling him over. Matthew was beside him in an instant, holding his shoulders.

"That is _not_ nothing, Alfred! What's wrong?"

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, an acrid smell welled up, filling his nose and mouth with its bitter unpleasantness, causing him to gag.

"Smoke. I smell smoke," he managed.

"Smoke? But I can't smell anything—" Matthew paused, an odd expression flitting across his features as he turned his face to the air. Then he gasped. "Damn it, they can't have, not already—!"

Recovering his breath, Alfred asked, "What can't they do already?" But Matthew was running for the door. Throwing it wide, he rushed outside, then reappeared back by Alfred. The smell of smoke intensified, and Matthew's voice grew urgent.

"We have to get you out of here, they're burning the city!"

"Wha—? Burning?"

"Yes, the smoke is from the fires, they've already started— but how would you know before I did…?"

"I didn't!"

"You smelled the smoke first…"

Suddenly, what Matthew had already said sank in. Alfred pulled himself upright, fixing Matthew with an abruptly harsh look. "Matt—what do you mean by 'already'?"

Matthew was lifting Alfred off the ground, moving them towards the door. "The British, they have plans to burn Washington, but I had no idea they were moving so soon—"

Alfred wrenched himself free. "So_ soon?_ You _knew _they were going to burn Washington?"

But Matthew's face showed little remorse. "It's a war, Alfred, you do what you can to destroy the enemy. Canada is British-owned, and I'm a government officer—"

"Is that was this is about? Did you just make friends with me so you could observe the city from the inside?" Matthew looked stricken.

"No, Alfred, it's not like that, but we have to get out of here—" But the other blond wouldn't listen. Backing away, betrayal welling up and nearly overpowering the bitter taste of smoke, Alfred spun around, ignoring Matthew's startled cries and shouted regrets. He didn't know _how_ he knew what was burning, but as he started to run, he found his feet carrying him steadily towards the White House. Ignoring the sickening fear that clenched at his stomach, he began to sprint, not remembering anymore if he was running _to_ something or away as the first black cloud appeared in the sky.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>Uwaa, suspense! Maybe. It seemed suspenseful to me, anyway.<p>

Ok, historical stuff!  
>-The War of 1812 began on June 18th, 1812. On June 26, Massachusetts's House of Representative condemned the war, and by July 2nd, Connecticut had done the same thing. Neither agreed to lend their militias to the effort.<br>-The first major land battle of the war became known as the Surrender of Detroit, when veteran General William Hull surrendered his entire army of 2200 men to British forces without firing a shot. He was courtmartialed for cowardice and sentence to death, but President Madison pardoned him.  
>-On October 13, 1812, American forces are led across the Niagara River to Queenston Heights, Ontario, but the New York militia refuses to follow General Stephen Van Rennsselaer across the border, claiming they only are required to fight on New York soil. The Americans were defeated, with 900 men captured.<br>-The Americans almost invade Canada _again _in an attempt to capture Montreal, but again the militia under General Henry Dearborn refuses to cross the border, and they're forced to retreat.  
>-Madison was reelected on December 2nd, 1812.<br>-Sacagawea dies at Fort Manuel on December 20th, 1812, and Clark assumes custody of Jean Baptiste and Lisette Charbonneau.  
>-Meriwether Lewis committed suicide at Grinder's Strand, an inn south of Nashville, on October 11th, 1809.<br>-Napoleon was crushed at the Battle of Leipzig on October 16, 1813, and retreats to France. He abdicates on May 30th, 1814, ending the Napoleonic Wars in Europe.  
>-The peace talks Madison mentions begin on August 8th, 1814. They culminate in the Treaty of Ghent nearly six months later.<br>-The White House (and many other government buildings) were burned on August 24th, 1814, by an army of Canadian soldiers. American Secretary of War John Armstrong is forced to resign after being blamed for the event, due to poor planning and intelligence that left Washington, DC badly defended.

So... Canada finally appears, because his people burned the capital. Yay, Canada! He's also suspicious, but who knows if he'll act on it?  
>I felt like I was copping out a bit with the Emeline scene, but she'll be back one more time, I think.<p>

On to the next chapter! Please continue to support this story, and if you have time, don't hesitate to leave a comment or review!


	12. Burning

Back again, with the conclusion of the burning of Washington!

Thank you very much to ShippudenFlower, skyspottedshadow, petaltailify97, Oniongrass, anonomas russia fan, In The Mix, Tsui Hikaru, RenofAmestris, Nonnie, WeAllFlyHigh, Alex, and to Pain and Betrayal for your lovely reviews~! This chapter received an all-time high of feedback!  
>Thanks as well to Tegan Shade and again to RenofAmestris for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Do enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>The streets of Washington were clogged with people, a constantly shifting, pushing mass of confusion and panic. Civilians flowed through the streets, and as many in number stood in doors and windows, barricading themselves in their houses.<p>

But there was no resistance for the British troops as they marched through the streets, their red uniforms already stained from months at battle in the nearby Chesapeake Bay. Save for a few shots fired by ordinary citizens from their homes upon the army's arrival, Washington lay bare and unprotected. Anxious glances and a building sense of dread were the only elements of any reception for the British.

Alfred noticed none of this, focused solely on the frighteningly close black plume of smoke and the growing pain in his chest. He also didn't notice that, despite moving against the general flow of the crowd away from the fire, the masses parted when he passed, and countless concerned looks were directed at him from all sides as he staggered forward.

_V~-~-~V_

Matthew paced back and forth across the wooden floor of the bookshop, wringing his hands behind his back and wishing Kumotaro was there so he could have something to hold on to. Remembering for the millionth time that the American government (however lenient it may have been towards him), did not want a polar bear in Washington, he again began to worry about his pet's welfare.

A cry from outside snapped his mind back to the present. _Alfred._

The man was an enigma. A cheerful, outgoing, perfectly American enigma who resisted any and all of Matthew's attempts at questioning him with a scarily practiced ease. _Or, _an obnoxious corner of his brain reminded him, _maybe he really doesn't have anything to hide, and you're just being paranoid._

More importantly to the current situation, Alfred thought Matthew had betrayed him, had faked his friendship for the past few months to get an insider's look at Washington, informing the British all the while. He sighed. He was many things, but a liar was not among them. _Most of the time_, that obnoxious corner piped, but Matthew quickly squashed that thought.

He stopped wringing his hands in favor of biting his lip. He wondered if Alfred would believe him if he said that he'd had nothing to do with the attack, that it was British soldiers from the Caribbean who had sailed all the way up to coast. Knowing Alfred, he would insist that he couldn't prove that he wasn't a part of their plan anyway, because Canada was British-owned.

_That_ was another thing that bothered Matthew. Sure, the British ruled Canada well, but they still were increasingly considered a foreign power. He was Canadian first and foremost, a citizen of the Crown second (actually, he considered himself more French than British, but legal technicalities prevented that from being a reality).

_But back to Alfred, _he thought, mentally chastising himself for getting lost in thought _again_. He was out there, probably headed for the White House, but the crowds had made it impossible for Matthew to follow. And if Alfred was who Matthew suspected he was, then he was undergoing the most painful thing he could think of: having one's heart literally burned out.

He could only hope, for Alfred's sake, that his suspicions were wrong.

_V~-~-~V_

His lungs clogged with smoke that he hadn't quite reached yet, Alfred turned down Pennsylvania Avenue, running as fast as his fatigued legs would carry him. Ignoring both the heavy feeling that threatened to consume him and the scorching pain in his chest, he pushed on, knowing all the while that he was only hoping to save what couldn't be saved.

He was unprepared for the sight at the end of the street. At first, all he could see was the black smoke, pouring into the sky from a single concentrated point, turning the sky dark as it blotted out the sun.

But the golden-red glow emanating from the flames was certainly as bright as any sunlight as they leapt upwards, coiling out of windows and winding around the glorious façade of Alfred's favorite building in Washington. A random thought raced through his brain, taking the time to remind him that the White House was built of sandstone, the thickest available, and it surely wouldn't be that easy to burn, but the blaze before him said otherwise.

He thanked the stars that President Madison was out of town, fleeing at the first hinting of a British invasion. But the servants were all still there, as was Madison's wife. And from the frantic shouts reaching Alfred's ears, they weren't all safe.

He arrived at the scene, watching as servants ran out of the burning house with their arms full of whatever valuables they could carry: vases, china and silks all found their way into a pair of waiting wagons. The horses nervously tossed their heads at they were forced to wait, while their ever instinct clearly screamed to get away from the fire. As Alfred stood, breath coming in quick, painful gasps, he wondered why he still felt that inexplicable _need _to do something.

That's when he saw the President's wife and three others throw something into a cart, and leap in after it. Running towards them, he took in the sight of their ashen faces, all smeared with dust but each bearing the pride and happiness of a much lighter day.

"Ma'am?" Alfred asked tentatively, hoping Dolley Madison would recognize him.

Turning, she studied him for a moment, before evidently placing him as one of the former workers at the White House. "Ah! Mr. Jones, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am." The other three, all men, looked relieved that the First Lady knew him. Alfred dimly recalled two of them. One was a doorkeeper, a Frenchman if Alfred had judged his accent correctly. The other took a bit longer to remember, but he finally recalled that he was a gardener, also European, one who always had taken an interest in the White House's roses. The third was a teenager, dark-skinned, whom Alfred had never seen before.

"Did you manage to save any of your possessions from the British, ma'am?" Alfred asked, searching for a reason behind their seemingly misplaced pride. He seemed to hit the right subject as all three of the men seemed to swell, while Mrs. Madison's eyes danced brighter.

"Indeed we did," she replied. "Nothing of mine, but something much more important." She patted the rolled cloth next to her with a fond expression on her face, one that clouded when she glanced back at the flames consuming her home.

"We need to escape. The British did say that they would refrain from burning any more than the government buildings, and did seem to have no desire to hurt civilians, but if they find that which we've taken, there is a possibility that they will chase us down." The men around her nodded in agreement.

"And you'd best get back to the President, Mrs. Madison," Alfred said, nodding with them. "Do you need a driver?"

Dolley Madison's eyebrows rose. True enough, they didn't seem to have anyone who could handle horse, judging by Alfred's quick assessment of the men. Perhaps she planned on driving herself?

"That would be wonderful, Alfred. We must be off as quick as possible, after all."

Apparently not. Without any further discussion, Alfred leapt onto the wooden bench at the front of one of the carriages, grabbing the horse's reins in his hands in a well-practiced motion. He'd been taught to drive a cart and handle just about any horse during his years of farm work, and his hands still bore the calluses as evidence. With a quick snap and a click of his tongue, the horse broke into a trot, clearly as eager as he and the other occupants of the cart were to get away from the fire.

Another servant, among the last remaining, took control of the second cart, and wheeled about so that he was in front of Alfred as the pair made their way down Pennsylvania Avenue.

As they got farther away from the flames, Alfred's throat began to clear, and he could smell something besides smoke. Glancing up, he caught sight of the heavy gray storm clouds bearing in on the city, rising like mountains over the distant horizon, bringing with them the crisp, clean smell of rain.

As if sensing his thoughts, the dark-skinned servant (probably a slave, Alfred mentally corrected) spoke up. "It looks like a storm is brewing, Madam."

"Indeed it does. Perhaps it will discourage the British enough that they will cease burning our buildings," Dolley Madison replied, though she didn't sound hopeful.

Suddenly, another spike of pain drove itself through Alfred's heart. He gasped, resisting the urge to double over and curl up right there, instead gripping the reins with white-knuckled hands. His vision swam, the horse duplicating before his eyes, then re-merging into one animal as he continued along the city streets.

"More smoke!" exclaimed one of the men in the cart. Alfred wrenched his gaze from the road to the sky above and sure enough, another dark blot was joining the first.

"It's the Senate," Alfred managed to say, his voice choking, not fully understanding how he knew. But Washington was so familiar to him, and innate knowledge of the city's layout seemed present at the forefront of his minds. His mind flew to the other building nearby, the one that held the House of Representatives, just as another fist of pain clenched his heart and another dark smudge appeared in the sky.

He thought of Jefferson, and of the Library of Congress he had adored during his days as President, which was surely going up in flames with the destruction of the Senate and the House. All those books, painstakingly collected by the American political greats and many others, would never to be read again.

A hand lighted on his shoulder, jerking Alfred back to the task at hand. "Are you all right, Mr. Jones?"

"I'm fine, ma'am," Alfred replied, snapping the reins again as if to prove his point. Intent on leaving the city, he almost didn't recognize the feeling of guilt when it arrived.

_Matthew_.

Alfred swore quietly, remembering the quiet young Canadian for the first time since running away from the bookshop in his fit of anger. He almost regretted doing that now, when Matthew had never been anything but nice to him, almost regretted accusing him of all the things he had. Almost, but not quite.

But he could still feel guilty about leaving a man who had been his friend for a few months now in a burning city under siege. And as the Library of Congress had so reminded him, buildings full of paper and books went up like kindling.

Turning around in his seat, Alfred asked, "Would you mind if I stopped somewhere quickly? I have a friend who needs to get out of the city too." Noting the doubtful looks of the men, he added, "It's only a block or so out of the way."

The men in the back turned to Mrs. Madison, who nodded her approval. Alfred whispered his thanks, nodding toward the First Lady, then abruptly steered the horse to the left, sending the cart onto a side street, the quickest way to the bookshop.

Another pang of pain later, and Alfred was aware that the Treasury was burning, without even needing to look up at the smoke surely continuing to cloud the sky. It seemed as though the British soldiers were intent on burning anything important that they could, but they surprised Alfred with their restraint all the same as they refrained from simply razing the entire city to the ground, civilians and all. It would certainly have been easier, but with the lack of American military presence in the city itself, they didn't have much to worry about anyway.

Pulling up outside the familiar doorstep, Alfred did his best to keep his head up through the overwhelming pain in his chest. Stumbling (and very nearly falling) out of the cart, he threw open the bookshop's wooden door, hoping that Matthew was still there.

_V~-~-~V_

Matthew was pacing the front room like he wanted to wear tracks in the floorboards, but he looked up immediately at the sound of the door opening. His almost-violet eyes went wide at the sight of Alfred, barely standing with the assistance of the doorframe.

"_Alfred!_"

Matthew found that that was the extent of his coherence. Rushing forward, he grabbed the American by the shoulders, lending what support he could as Alfred collapsed into his arms, while a mixture of sympathy and sickening realization collected in the pit of his stomach. "How have you kept going this whole time? Are you crazy?"

Glancing over his friend's shoulder, Matthew caught sight of the cart, its horse still skittish, and the four riders seated in the back. One, a woman, gestured for him to come forward. Matthew did so, steering Alfred back onto the driver's bench.

"Is there something wrong with Mr. Jones?" she asked, worry evident in her tone.

Matthew bit his lip, wondering how to explain what had no right to be explained to common citizens. Besides, he wasn't _quite _sure yet that Alfred's pain was from what he thought. "He's probably inhaled a bit too much smoke, especially since he ran all the way to the White House," was his eventual response, one that seemed to satisfy Alfred's companions.

"Can you drive us out of the city?" the woman asked. "Mr. Jones appears to be in no fit state to do so."

"Certainly, madam," Matthew replied. Alfred moaned a bit and tried to sit up, but Matthew pushed him forcefully back onto the bench. "You heard her," he said, "I'll be the one driving from here on."

The American made a faint noise of protest, but stopped moving, his sky blue eyes closing. Matthew sighed, muttering angrily in French about idiots who didn't know when to quit. But still, he couldn't help being pleased that Alfred had returned for him. There might be hope to salvage their friendship yet.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred woke with a woozy feeling he distinctly remembered from the Revolution, a feeling of battles fought and overcome, but with pain still coursing through his weary limbs.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he felt the pull of stiff bandages beneath his shirt. Which, now that he looked at it, certainly wasn't the one he'd had on at the fire—

_The fire._

Memories rushing to the forefront of his mind, Alfred instantly panicked. Had they all made it safely out, with their cargo? Evidently Matthew had, but what about the First Lady and the White House servants?

He took in his surroundings, wondering where he was. It was a small bedroom, the bed he lay on taking up most of the space. In the corner, he caught sight of the roll of canvas that Mrs. Madison had been so intent on saving, and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

The burning sensation in his chest was also gone, replaced with a chill that made Alfred shiver. Peering at the window, he saw that the gray clouds outside had made good on their promise of rain.

Just then, the door opened, revealing the First Lady herself, a pile of towels in her arms. She looked uninjured, much to Alfred's further relief, and actually smiled at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones."

"Good morning, ma'am," he replied, his voice coming out hoarse. He swallowed, then mustered up about half of his usual grin. "Could I trouble you for some water?"

She just gestured to his bedside, where a glass was already waiting. Nodding gratefully, Alfred downed the entire thing in a few gulps.

"You were burnt in the fire," Mrs. Madison said, putting the towels down and gesturing towards his bandaged chest. "Mr. Williams was kind enough to take over your driving and see us out of the city."

"Matthew?" So he had found him, after all. Alfred didn't really remember that part.

"Yes, your Canadian friend. He returned to his home yesterday, though he said he will return as soon as he can, and wants to see you when he does."

Alfred nodded, storing that information for later and asking the question he'd been thinking of since he'd arrived at the White House. "What was it that you needed to save?"

The now-familiar look of pride returned to Mrs. Madison's face. Striding over to the corner, she returned to Alfred's bedside carrying the roll. Almost reverently, she laid it across the bed and unfurled it just enough to let Alfred see the face of his most respected leader, painted to the life on the canvas.

"George Washington's portrait…" Alfred breathed, reaching out a hand to touch the corner. Looking up at the First Lady, he asked, "How?"

"Mr. McGraw, Mr. Sioussat, and Paul helped me cut it from its frame shortly before the British arrived. I wish I could have saved all of it, but time _was _of the essence."

Alfred nodded again, at a loss for words. This was among the only portraits Washington had ever allowed to be painted from life, and certainly the only one actually in Washington DC, the city that bore his name. Alfred found himself floundering in an unexpected sea of gratitude towards Dolley Madison, one that surged up with no warning, as he realized for the first time the reason behind her pride on that night.

Meeting Dolley's eyes, he tried to pour the depth of his thanks into his gaze and words. "Thank you, Mrs. Madison. On the behalf of every American, thank you."

She looked surprised, but touched all the same. She smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, Mr. Jones."

She turned towards the window, gazing out. "Quite the rainstorm we're having, isn't it?"

_V~-~-~V_

"Excuse me, sir…?"

Seated behind his desk, Matthew's boss barely glanced up. A British man, he cared little for the whims of a foreign country, even if he was mostly in charge of running it. He would deny that, saying he was merely a servant of the Queen, but orders from England were few and far between, so the reins that held him were fairly slack.

"Yes, Mr. Williams?" His voice sounded tired, and mildly irritated that Matthew would interrupt him.

Matthew didn't respond immediately, instead glancing over the papers on his boss's desk. The British government was receiving a lot of criticism for the burning ("needless vandalism of public buildings," they said) from American media, though the British insisted that it had been justified thanks to the attacks on Canada. Matthew privately agreed, the burning of Parliament buildings in York by American soldiers still fresh in his mind.

But the British sentiment was also partially against the burnings, and that would be what was worrying his boss. The newspapers claimed that British people just didn't _do_ things like burn other peoples' capitals, and that the destruction of Washington "brought a heavy censure on British character." Matthew had almost laughed at that. Trust the British to hold their morals over the thought of conquest _now_. Rather hypocritical, in his opinion, not that the British ever asked for his thoughts on the matter.

Matthew's boss cleared his throat, evidently wondering when Matthew was going to finally respond. Flushing slightly and wishing he hadn't zoned out so badly, Matthew said, "I met an interesting person in America." His boss made a noncommittal noise in reply. Matthew continued, "His name was Alfred Jones."

His boss looked up, fixing Matthew with one of his no-nonsense, get-to-the-point-or-get-out-of-my-office glares. "I—I think he may be the… representative of America. Like me."

"Are you not the representative for North America?" his boss asked. "I was under the impression that you spoke for both Canada and America."

Matthew shook his head. "I really only answer to you, sir. If I _really_ represented both, I'd have met the American President by now. And I just don't feel the same connection towards America that I do towards Canada." He didn't mention that, if the burning had taught him one thing, it was that his heart truly did lie in Ottawa.

"But you have been recognized," his boss said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "as the international representative of both British-owned Canada and the former British colony of America. Therefore, there is only you. A random American is of no consequence."

"But he felt different! He sort of felt like France, obviously not _quite_ like France because he's American, but he had that same sort of _pull_—"

"If you are only here to speak of vague notions and _'pulls'_, do not waste my time," his boss said irritably. "Now, do you have proof that this American is one of your people? Surely he would have figured it out already if he was, unless he's as much of an utter imbecile as nearly every other American I've met."

That statement left Matthew floundering, unsure of how to quite respond. _It's true,_ his brain told him. _Alfred would have realized long ago that he wasn't aging, and surely he would have been picked up by another Nation. Nobody's ever gone unnoticed for this long before, and certainly not a large country like America…_

Eventually, he had to admit that his suspicions could be wrong, that Alfred was just another ordinary person after all, even if he did seem unusually close. Perhaps that was just a result of their friendship.

But Matthew couldn't stop thinking about the angry red burn mark that had appeared on the left side of Alfred's chest, one that curdled his stomach to think about. If what Dolley Madison said was true, and Alfred had never actually entered the flames of the White House himself, how on earth had that scar appeared?

Nonetheless, Matthew took his leave from his boss's office, leaving the man smirking with the knowledge that he'd won the argument. But that left Matthew to ponder the question of exactly _who_ Alfred F Jones was.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So first of all, the last chapter raised quite a few questions, particularly concerning Lewis's suicide, so like a good author, I did research! His family had a history of manic-depression (bipolar disorder), and apparently Lewis himself suffered with severe bouts of depression since a young age. He also was in debt, drank heavily, and possibly used opium towards the time of his death. He was accused of being dishonest over billing for the Louisiana Territory (which he governed), and attempted suicide on the boat ride south to St Louis. It was at the inn south of Nashville that he finally shot himself and succeeded. While most people in the country claimed it was murder, both Clark and Thomas Jefferson believed the suicide reports without question, as both knew of his history with depression.<br>I also got a question about his coat and gloves. No, they aren't the coat and gloves he sports in the canon, because those reportedly came about during WWII.

Moving on to the history behind _this_ chapter:  
>The White House was burned first, followed by the Senate, House of Representatives, the Treasury, and the rest of Fort McNair (then known as the fort on Greenleaf's Point). The US Patent Office was spared. British Admiral Cockburn wanted to burn down the headquarters of the newspaper, the <em>National Intelligencer<em>, for writing negative reports about him, but was convinced not to by a group of women who lived in the houses next door. Instead, he tore down the building brick by brick and destroyed all the newspaper's C-type.  
>The White House and Capitol walls were made of thick sandstone, and thus their facades were saved, though their insides were burnt out.<br>A British publication, _The Annual Register_, actually did say the "heavy censure on British character" bit, but most British people did believe that the burning was justified because America was seen as the aggressor for starting the war in the first place.  
>First Lady Dolley Madison, along with a doorkeeper (Jean-Pierre Sioussat), a gardener (McGraw), and James Madison's personal servant (the 15-year-old slave Paul Jennings) saved the iconic portrait of President George Washington, today allegedly the only piece remaining in the White House today from the decorations on display before the burning. Jennings later purchased his freedom from Dolley Madison and wrote a book detailing the events of that night. President Obama held a ceremony in 2009 to honor Jennings and the slaves' contribution to saving the painting and other valuables, with Jennings's descendants present.<p>

Hope that's enough history for you! I'll be publishing the next chapter hopefully by the end of the week, because I'm going to China on Sunday for two and a half weeks, and will thus be unable to write/publish anything. (I'm so excited to go, because I've only been out of the country once before on a brief road trip to Toronto, and have always wanted to go to Asia!)

Thank you for reading, and as always, please feel free to drop a comment or review if you have the time!


	13. Potential and Regret

Hello again!  
>Wow, it's really too late to be publishing. But I promised a new chapter before I left, so here it is, albeit a bit shorter than has become typical. Please forgive me.<p>

Many thank-yous to ShippudenFlower, petaltailify97, WeAllFlyHigh, and for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Herald Mistylenna, Oniongrass, Jillo96, December Camie, DeadGirlWalking-chan, Hikari Kaiya, and again to for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Also, I added an image. I found it on the wondrous internet, and have no idea from whence it came. If it's yours, and you want credit or wish it remove, please say so.

Please enjoy this (slightly shorter) chapter!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>1817<p>

Alfred opened up his morning paper and found yet another blazing headline.

He sighed, not even bothering to read it as he tossed the newsprint down onto the kitchen table. Over the years, he had come to associate newspaper headlines with nothing good. In the cases in which they were, he usually had already heard about them.

He had returned to the bookshop, which, thanks to the British's resistance to burning any private residences, had been spared from the fire. Mr. Rudolph had resumed business as usual, saying that, "No matter what, people will always want their books. Especially the Library of Congress. Such a shame, all those books lost…"

Thomas Jefferson had sold his private collection to replace some of the books that had burned in the Library, but it was still devastation on a personal level for both him and Mr. Rudolph, extreme lovers of literature that they were.

"Whatever are you sighing about so early in the morning?"

Turning, Alfred caught sight of Mr. Rudolph himself, entering the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hand. Before Alfred could wonder how he'd gotten it without his noticing, Mr. Rudolph asked, "Have you seen the papers? There's another treaty gone through."

Alfred shook his head, and picked up the newspaper again. Quickly scanning the main article, he frowned slightly.

"The Rush-Bagot Treaty? Why on Earth do they need another?"

"Apparently, they feel the need to demilitarize the Great Lakes."

"Why couldn't they have done it sooner? The war was over three years ago already."

"You know fully how slow these politicians are in getting their treaties signed and passed by all necessary dignitaries. If they hurried up, they might prevent unnecessary battles."

Alfred snorted, not needing the reminder of the Treaty of Ghent, which hadn't even been heard of in the States until two weeks after its signing in 1814, ending the war. "The Battle of New Orleans was our greatest victory, and you know it."

Mr. Rudolph gave Alfred one of those faintly condescending looks Alfred had come to know well. "And it was fought _after_ the treaty was signed in Europe."

"But Jackson was brilliant, you must admit. And he saved all of that Louisiana Territory from invasion!"

Mr. Rudolph waved a hand, going back to his tea, and picking up the newspaper Alfred had once again discarded. "It was a British tactical victory for holding their position. _And_ they were caught unawares. In a fair fight, the Americans surely would have lost."

"No, they definitely would win with Jackson leading them," Alfred said firmly, Mr. Rudolph's lack of respect for the Major General irritating him.

"You Americans and your patriotism. So certain that you will always win. You see, back in the homeland, we had a long history of wars. Some we won, but just as many we lost. Just because this young country has a history of winning wars in what, the last fifty years, does not mean it always will."

Alfred glared at the side of Mr. Rudolph's head. The man wasn't even _looking_ at him, yet he had the nerve to absently blaspheme the country Alfred loved more than anything over his morning tea. "America will be better than that. And someday, our history will be just as long as yours."

"A physical impossibility," Mr. Rudolph replied. "When America has been around for another several hundred years, perhaps then you will learn to admit defeat with grace."

"Sometimes," Alfred all but growled, "I don't know how I can stand to work here."

"I could always fire you. Then maybe you could find someone who will listen to your idealistic chatter."

Having nothing appropriate to counter the threat of unemployment, Alfred settled for glaring daggers at the older-looking man's head and stalking (proudly, of course, never sulkily) out of the room.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred was not normally the brooding type, but during the dull days of 1817, he couldn't help himself. More often than not, he found himself distracted from shelving, or dusting, or eating, or whatever it was he was engaging himself in at the moment in favor of staring pensively at nothing.

Dolley Madison, who had become a good friend of his after the fire, still visited sometimes. James Madison had finished his term in office the previous year, succeeded by James Monroe, but that didn't stop Dolley from wandering Washington DC. In fact, Alfred mused, it wasn't likely that anybody or anything could stop Dolley if she wanted to do something.

It was during one of Dolley's visits that she brought up all this uncertainty that was beginning to plague Alfred.

v~v

"_You're quite brilliant, you know."_

_Alfred nearly spat out his coffee. "Excuse me?"_

_Dolley Madison merely smiled serenely. "You're quite brilliant, in your own way. Not all bookish, but certainly more intelligent than the common man."_

"_Thanks… I suppose."_

"_It was a complement." She looked mildly miffed that he would interpret it otherwise. "More to the point now, what do you intend to do with your life?"_

_Alfred was tempted to raise an eyebrow, but decided that that might be rude to the former First Lady and settled for a polite, "What do you mean?"_

"_You can't honestly want to remain a bookkeeper's assistant for the rest of your life. You're a young man yet, with much potential." Glancing scornfully at the door separating the pair of them from the main shop, she continued, "Not that that irritating Hungarian employer of yours seems to notice."_

_Alfred frowned. "But I like the work here. And the pay's fairly reasonable." He didn't add that he'd have to move away soon enough anyway, before Mr. Rudolph noticed his continuing youth._

"_Do you not want something more?"_

"_I worked for the Jefferson administration," Alfred said, attempting to plead his case._

"_With what qualifications did you come by that job?"_

_That was a good question. Certainly he couldn't tell Dolley about working for Ben during the time of the Revolution, or about meeting Jefferson there when he'd been a much younger man. Beyond that… "Nothing really, ma'am. I just knew Jefferson already."_

_Dolley looked skeptical, but didn't comment. "A degree in law might suit you."_

"_Law?"_

"_Yes, law. You certainly have the capacity to learn, and unprecedented previous political and legal experience. How old are you again?"_

_Alfred's stomach lurched in the way it always did when someone asked that question. "Twenty-seven, ma'am."_

"_Well, you certainly don't look it," Dolley replied. "Any woman would be envious to appear so young at twenty-seven." Alfred flushed lightly. "But that's beside the point. Have you heard of that new school opening up? Harvard, I believe it's called?"_

_Alfred nodded. "It's supposed to be very prestigious, though, the best law school in America. You can't _really_ expect me to go there!"_

"_Ah, but I do! And if I remember correctly, you once mentioned a Paul Wetherby, an acquaintance of yours who happened to be a lawyer?"_

"_Actually, he's the father of an acquaintance," Alfred said, deciding not to mention that he'd known Paul's younger brother decades before he'd met Peter._

"_Would he be willing to recommend you? With no family standing, because trust me, there are far to many Joneses in the world for you to claim relation to one, you'll need a recommendation to get in."_

"_I can try," Alfred said doubtfully, "but I don't think he'd do that for me. He certainly has no obligation to."_

"_Have some faith, Alfred!" Dolley said cheerfully, having gotten her way at last. "I'm sure this Mr. Wetherby will be open to the idea."_

v~v

And now Alfred found himself brooding again, a letter penned to a Mr. Paul Wetherby, Esq., before him, an envelope with his address at his Boston home beneath it. He still didn't know if he had it in him to send it. It was one thing to finally acquire a decent formal education, something he'd found himself lacking in while in the world of politics, and another entirely to risk revealing his biggest secret to the Wetherby family. That was, if Emeline hadn't already told them. But he trusted her far more than that.

But that brought up even more brooding thoughts. He'd already lived around a hundred years, by his best guess, and had yet to do anything like what Dolley had described, nothing _meaningful_. The knowledge that he likely had a hundred years or more to live was something that, while vaguely unsettling, he knew that most would give their right arm for such an opportunity. And now Dolley had sent him on a guilt trip, and made him feel like he was wasting his indefinite time.

With a sigh, he signed the letter with a final flourish, and slipped it into the envelope. He supposed he could always lie, or transfer schools if he really disliked Harvard. Sealing the envelope, he grabbed his coat and gloves, and made for the nearest post office.

_V~-~-~V_

Four weeks had passed since Alfred had sent his letter off to Paul, and a reply still hadn't come. Jefferson had requested to meet with him, for reasons he wouldn't explain, so Alfred was making the now-familiar carriage ride to the former President's home at Monticello.

He'd designed the building himself, something Alfred admired him for, though in his opinion it was ridiculously ostentatious for a private home, with its columns, dome, and pristine exterior. Then again, Jefferson had enough pull in politics to get just about anything done, if even building himself a mansion in the hills of the countryside just beyond the city limits was possible.

Pulling up at the gates, Alfred ignored the carriage driver's attempts at assistance and opened the door himself, smiling briefly at the man as he made for the door, and leaving behind a rather generous tip. He'd looked surprised for a moment, but pocketed the money without more than a moment's hesitation.

Rapping the door knocker, Alfred waited, shivering slightly in the early spring air. It had been a cold winter in Washington, with more snow than most could remember happening, and it left him with an internal feeling of cold that he hadn't yet been able to shake.

A butler opened the door moment later. "Mr. Jones?" he asked, almost hesitantly, as if he couldn't expect the young man before him to have anything to do with a former President.

Alfred gave the man his best smile. "That would be me!"

The butler nodded, his harsh expression softening. "If you would please follow me, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jefferson awaits you in the parlor."

Alfred dutifully trailed the other man, peering around him at the interior of Jefferson's house all the way. It was filled with foreign imports, everything from furniture to art, but there were a few American things as well, most notably the American flag hanging from the far wall of one of the side rooms.

The butler stepped aside, holding the door to the parlor open as Alfred entered. He excused himself immediately afterward, closing the door behind him.

Turning to face Jefferson, Alfred grinned at the man he now considered an old friend. "He could do to smile more. It does wonders for his attitude."

The former President looked mildly shocked. "I've never gotten McAllister to smile before." Then he too smiled at Alfred, the maddening twinkle that had always been present in Ben's eyes now in his. "It's good to see you again, Alfred."

"You too, sir," Alfred replied, reaching out to shake Jefferson's hand. The other motioned for Alfred to sit, and he did, leaning back into the red velvet parlor chairs. But he couldn't help but notice how much more the veins in Jefferson's hands stood out than they had before, how many more creases and calluses were present, the definite increase of lines on his face.

Almost as if he read his study, Jefferson said, "You haven't changed a bit. Quite literally, I might add. Are you still falling asleep on the job?"

Alfred pulled a face. "No, that stopped after the latest war." That damn knowing twinkle reappeared again, and it was getting freakishly similar.

"I thought it might. Ben didn't tell me much, but he did hint that your well-being was somehow linked to the country's."

"How so?" Alfred asked, intrigued.

"I haven't the faintest idea. I have yet to meet anyone similar," Jefferson responded. Alfred glanced away and scowled, taking a moment to curse Ben thrice-over in his grave for his purposeful vagueness.

"Does that mean I'm going to get tired whenever there's a war?"

Jefferson shrugged. "As I said, that was all he told me. But I would assume that he meant that when you're sick, the country too is ailing, or more likely the other way around. He did love his riddles, that man. I'm inclined not to believe a word of it, given the utter lack of substantial proof or reason, but since this is Benjamin Franklin we're discussing, there's a definite possibility that he's telling the truth."

"That doesn't really help," Alfred muttered. "Why are you bringing this up now?"

"Well, I heard of your choice to enroll in a college from Mr. Wetherby, and it does bring up some problems. For one, your lack of a birth certificate or proper familial ties."

"Mrs. Madison said that a recommendation from a lawyer would fix that."

"Not fix it," Jefferson said, "merely mask it, and lend a better impression than someone with no one to vouch for them. It's old political families who will attend Harvard, not common folk such as yourself." He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Though you are far from common, I assure you."

"Thank you, for your unending fountain of moral support," Alfred muttered sarcastically. Jefferson laughed sharply again, trailing off into a silence that lasted.

Alfred stared out the window, choosing to avoid Jefferson's gaze, which he could feel (rather uncomfortably) on the side of his face as the quiet stretched between them in Jefferson's parlor.

Suddenly, he spoke again. "Have you heard of the Erie Canal they're planning to build in New York?" Alfred shook his head, so Jefferson continued. "It's a marvelous venture, really, much like the Cumberland Road, only on the water. They've devised quite the ingenious lock system to get over the escarpment to Buffalo, and it's supposed to go all the way to Albany. And now that the Great Lakes needn't worry about military, it opens up all sorts of trading opportunities for us, and Canada, and allows for quick transport of goods to the interior…"

He continued, but Alfred stopped listening. He was fully aware it was rude to ignore one's host, but he couldn't help but be more concerned about what Jefferson had said earlier, about him being connected somehow to the country. Were there others like that? There must be, unless Ben had come up with the idea all on his own, but it was so preposterous that Alfred wasn't sure he could have.

"Now, more to the point…"

Alfred looked at Jefferson quizzically, snapping out of his reverie. "I thought that was the point?"

"No, not yet. You weren't paying attention anyway." Alfred glanced away, feeling a familiar warmth on his cheeks. He could practically _hear _Jefferson smile as he went on. "Mr. Wetherby couldn't find a return address, other than the atrociously written one in the corner… really, you _must_ work on your penmanship… so he sent his reply to me."

"Why didn't you _say_ so?" Alfred asked.

"I knew you'd stop listening to me once I mentioned it, so I chose to withhold that information."

"You're a real manipulative jerk, you know?" Damn twinkling.

Reaching beside him, Jefferson pulled an envelope from a drawer in the chair's side table, so obviously prepared that Alfred had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Here you are."

Slipping his finger under the flap, Alfred noticed the seal was already broken. He pulled out the first sheaf of papers. They were clearly official documents, with a shield emblem at the top of every page, emblazoned with _Harvard Law School._ He stared at the papers in shock.

"I… They accepted me. To law school."

Jefferson raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

Alfred shot him a look. "Yes, really. Surely you already knew. The letter was open, after all."

"I don't read others' mail," Jefferson sniffed, looking mildly insulted, "even if it is delivered to my house. It's impolite, you know."

Alfred looked back at the papers, reading them over again, his astonishment growing the more he read. "I can't believe it… why on Earth…?"

"You're certainly qualified."

"That's what Mrs. Madison said."

"She's right, you know." Jefferson paused. "Will you accept the invitation?"

Alfred looked up again, meeting the other's gaze. "I don't know. I think I will. I honestly hadn't thought that far ahead yet."

Jefferson just hm'd, as another paper in the envelope caught Alfred's eye. Pulling it out, he immediately noticed a difference. This one was thinner, less official, with no grand seal at the top. And it was handwritten, in shaky penmanship that Alfred didn't recognize. It held merely a few sentences.

_Alfred,_

_I hope this reaches you in time. Congratulations on your acceptance to Harvard, but I'm afraid I have some tragic news. My wife, Emeline, died a few days ago, of natural causes. Since she knew you in life, I wish to extend to you an invitation to her funeral, held this May 18__th__. I know our entire family would like to meet you as well. I only wish it could be under happier circumstances._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Paul Wetherby_

Alfred felt the other papers slide from his hands, his fingers remaining clenched on only the one handwritten note as images of a little girl with sky-blue eyes flashed through his brain. Playing with a rabbit, eating maple candy, reading bedtime fables with Franklin…

The perfect dream he'd preserved his memories as shattered as he remembered that that little girl, his adorable baby sister, had grown up without him, lived a life full of happiness and a marriage and children. A woman who had buried both her parents without her brother, finding him only years later, yet blaming him for nothing. She was the one who'd believed in him unconditionally, even with his sporadic communication and unfulfilled promises.

And now she was gone.

Alfred couldn't hear Jefferson's anxious voice over the sudden roar of realization. The letter he kept, clenched in his hand, as he felt the first tears break free and slide down his cheeks.

* * *

><p>Done. My eyes are tired.<br>I know, I know, no Matthew this chapter, but he'll be back soon, don't worry!

Historical stuff time! I actually had a lot of difficulty finding interesting things about this time period. Really, nothing much at all happens between the War of 1812 and the Civil War.  
>Firstly- The Rush-Bagot Treaty demilitarized the Great Lakes as well as Lake Champlain, essentially removing all American and British navy vessels (they each got to keep one ship and one cannon) as well as laying the groundwork for the Treaty of 1818, which created a buffer zone between American and British military forces.<br>The War of 1812 was ended by the Treaty of Ghent (signed in Ghent, in modern-day Belgium), but due to the slow communication of the time, the fighting forces didn't hear about it until a few weeks later, and even then, some refused to credit it as anything more than a rumor. The Battle of New Orleans, the most successful land battle (and the last major battle) of the war for the Americans, which basically prevented the British from advancing into the Louisiana Territory due to an ambush led by Major General Andrew Jackson (better known as the future President Andrew Jackson).  
>Harvard School of Law was founded in 1817, though it was many years before it actually became successful. Alfred, by enrolling now, becomes part of its first graduating class.<br>The Erie Canal, between Albany and Buffalo in New York State, connected the Great Lakes to the interior of New York. It began construction in 1817, and completed in 1825.  
>The Cumberland Road was the first real improved highway in America, beginning construction in 1811 and officially opening in 1818. Also known as the National Road, it goes from Cumberland, Maryland west to Vandalia, Illinois.<p>

Of those of you who read these notes, for the Civil War, how many want just a conflicted Alfred, and how many want two personifications, Alfred for the North and a new one for the South?

As you know, I'll be gone for two-and-then-some weeks in China, so don't expect an update for a while. I'm actually leaving twelve hours from know (it's currently midnight), so be glad I have such devotion!

Thank you for reading, and as always, if you have comments or reviews, don't hesitate to write me something! They really keep me going, and are endless sources of inspiration!


	14. Birthday Omake

I lied, this isn't a real chapter. But I felt really bad for not uploading anything in forever, so I've spent a good portion of the 4th of July writing an omake to make myself feel less guilty.

I got back from China less than a week ago, but a little more than 24 hours after that, I was on another plane, so my base of operations has moved from San Francisco to Buffalo. Which, I might add, is exactly a 12 hour time difference from China. Adjusting is still in progress, and sucks, but China was amazing, so it's all worth it. (^_^)

Reviewer thank-yous will be on the next official chapter, which should be published in a few days, hopefully by the end of the week. Sorry again!

I disclaim, and own nothing.

* * *

><p>Birthday Omake!<p>

Alfred sat peacefully on a park bench in Boston, his newspaper on his lap. It was summer, still his favorite time of year, despite the stifling heat and sudden increase in the insect population. The sky was blue, with nary a cloud, and the shade of the old maple he sat beneath was pleasantly cool.

The park was also one of his favorite places to be. From the vantage point of a cleverly oriented park bench, one could see almost the entirety of the park mapped out before him, and more importantly, the people coming and going. Little girls with daisy chains, boys flying kites, young couples holding hands and families toting picnic baskets, all of them made their way by in a veritable symphony of life, carefully orchestrated and beautifully executed.

Alfred loved his people.

He still wasn't sure when they'd become "his," but as the silent observer of their lives so much shorter than his own, it almost felt like a right.

This particular day, though, was even more special. Even more people visited the park than was normal, but their smiles were also brighter, their laughter clearer, and their demeanor so much more relaxed. There also were only three colors, represented on kites, blankets, streamers, and children's jumpers: the ever-so-patriotic red, white, and blue.

July 4th, Alfred decided, was indeed a good day to have a birthday.

He leaned back for a moment, and thought back to the many birthdays he remembered.

_V~-~-~V_

The village was a bustling place, as it always was, especially around the Time of Harvest. The men and women both worked in the fields, coming home in the evenings laden with food. Some was preserved, but a lot was eaten, because it wasn't for no reason that the Time of Harvest was also (unofficially) known as the Time of Great Feasting.

At the sight of the men and women returning for the day, the village children stopped in their play, rushing to greet their parents. Among the sea of little brown bodies, there was a single blond streak.

"Nek!"

One of the many women basket-carrying women dropped her burden to pick up a new one. Bright blue eyes met deep brown, and little arms clasped around her neck. The Algonquin people of the village had long since gotten used to the Mother of the People's little blond charge, and only smiled at the sight.

"How was your day, Mukki? Did you play nice with the other young ones?"

"Yep! I made friends with a deer too, but Matunaaga scared it off."

"Oh, too bad. I'm sure you'll find him again, if you look hard enough." The woman picked up her bundle again, balancing it on one hip with the blond child on the other. Together, they entered the hut where the pair of them slept. Another woman came and collected Nek's basket, taking the food to the communal storage grounds.

"Why do you go out every day, Nek?"

She smiled, the skin around her dark eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "My only purpose on this earth is to help my people. And if aiding them, whenever and however I can, means working alongside them in the fields, I would be happy to do so every day of the year."

"Even in the snow?"

"Even in the snow."

"But there aren't any plants to pick then, Nek."

"Then I would prepare the ground for planting season."

The blond boy fell silent, imagining his mother, wearing her winter furs, waist-deep in snow in the middle of a planting field, still smiling as brightly as ever. Movement brought him out of his imagination.

"Today is a special day, Mukki. Do you know why?"

The little boy's face screwed up in concentration, but he came up empty. "No. Why?"

"It's what we call a 'birthday'. Every year, with the passing of all the seasons, you get older. It's a very special day indeed, because you can count all the years you have been alive using the number of birthdays that have passed." The pair of blue eyes widened.

"When is your birthday, Nek? How old are you?"

The woman laughed, a musical sound. "I've long since lost count, but I'm as old as the People."

"That's almost as old as the _earth_," the boy said, speaking almost reverently. She laughed again.

"No, not quite that old. But on birthdays, it's customary to give presents, celebrating another year of life and hoping for many more to come. Since it has been a year since I found you, today you get a present." From the folds of her dress, the woman pulled out a small wooden pendant, dangling from a leather strap. Standing up, she placed it ceremoniously around the small boy's neck.

"Congratulations, Mukki, on passing another year of life. May you always remember what you have accomplished, and live to accomplish much more."

In awe, the little boy fingered the moon-and-star pattern engraved on the pendant. Suddenly, he let it fall, and wrapped his arms around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder.

"Thank you, Nek."

"You're very welcome, Mukki."

"I hope I can stay with you for _all_ my birthdays."

"As many as you want."

The little boy yawned sleepily, shifting from a hug to be curled up in the warmth of her lap. As he drifted off, he whispered,

"Kuwumaras, Nek."

The ageless Native American woman smiled down at her young charge, one whom she'd come to consider her son just as much as she did her many other children.

"I love you too, Mukki."

_V~-~-~V_

"Alfie!"

Alfred blinked, groggy from sleep. Something rather heavy was bouncing on his bed.

"Al~_fie_," the something whined, "wake up! It's your birthday!"

Alfred blinked again, remembering that yesterday had been November 14th, which meant today was November 15th, the day that, for lack of any other, had become his birthday.

"_Alfie!"_

The something moved to his stomach and bounced again, thoroughly knocking the wind out of him. "I'm awake, Em, I'm awake!"

"Yay! Now get up, get up, it's your birthday! That means no chores and playtime and presents and _cake_!" The little blonde girl, still wearing her bedclothes, was practically drooling at the thought.

"You just want cake, don't you."

"Cake is _yummy_," she whined, "and we only get it on birthdays!"

"And Christmas, Easter, and New Year's," Alfred reminded her, switching his night shirt for his trousers and a button-down that Sarah was particularly fond of. She always dressed them up anyway on their birthdays, so he figured he might as well try to get out of the inevitable by looking nice from the get-go.

Glancing toward his window, Alfred was vaguely surprised at how dark it still was. Sure, it was November, but had the days really gotten that shorter without his noticing?

Emeline, meanwhile, was still bouncing. "Are you sure you haven't already eaten the cake?" Alfred asked.

"Don't be silly Alfie," she said, her pout lip making itself known. "Mama hasn't even made it yet. We would have smelled it already." That was true. The smell of Sarah's baking always pervaded the whole house, and it was _fantastic._

"Has your Pa gone to work yet?" Alfred asked, opting to change the subject instead of allowing Emeline's mind to dwell any longer on cake.

Emeline giggled. "Of course not. It's not even 6 o'clock yet!"

"_What?"_

"I didn't want you to miss your birthday, so I got you up extra early!"

"_Emeline!"_

_V~-~-~V_

Peter nearly dropped the stack of papers he was carrying.

"It's your _birthday_ on the _4__th__ of July?"_

Alfred raised an eyebrow. In all the years since he'd let Ben choose his birthday for him, he'd never gotten quite that reaction. "What, is it really that strange? I can't hardly help it, you know." That was a lie, but Peter didn't know that.

"That is so… so _wonderful!_"

"I still fail to see what's so amazing about having a birthday."

"It's on our country's Independence Day, which just happens to be celebrated almost nationwide. _And_ you work for the President, which has to be the most patriotic job there is. Is that not a bizarre coincidence?"

Alfred shrugged. "It's still mere coincidence, even if it is bizarre." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "When is your birthday? I've never asked…"

"_Mine_," Peter said derisively, "is on March 23rd. There's nothing special about March 23rd."

"That's not a bad thing," Alfred said. "It means you've got the day all to yourself. You don't have to worry about another holiday interfering. Imagine being born on Christmas, or some other major religious holiday. _That_ would be something to complain about."

Peter scrunched up his eyebrows, something he did whenever he felt conflicted. "I suppose that you're right… but everyone remembers your birthday if it's on the 4th of July! I _never_ have my birthday remembered."

"You just need to comment on it more. Then people will remember you as the man who's incessantly complaining about his March 23rd birthday, thus remembering the date," Alfred suggested, smirking. Peter was not appreciative of this advice, and Alfred soon found himself ducking from a flying folder.

"That is _not helpful_, Alfred F Jones!"

_V~-~-~V_

The year 1826 was the first birthday that Alfred didn't celebrate.

The day began with a mild headache that sustained itself despite his attempts to stop it. Two painful twinges (Alfred wouldn't really call them twinges, probably something a bit more violent) made themselves known a few hours apart. His heart was not in the Independence Day celebrations that year. Instead, he found his mind wandering to his old boss, following a strong sense of foreboding.

Two days later, Alfred learned of the deaths of both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both former Presidents of the United States, who passed away mere hours apart, one in Quincy, and one in Charlottesville. It was that year that he attended funerals instead of parties.

He'd suspected Jefferson's death for about as long as Jefferson himself had. In 1818, he'd first begun complaining of his rheumatism. Alfred had laughed at the time and called him old, which he certainly was at 75 ("Three quarters of a century, man! You're ancient!"). But he got steadily worse, eventually staying in bed for most of his days. Though he continued to write, the letters he sent to Alfred got progressively shorter and sloppier, until they ceased altogether.

Alfred saved every last one, tied together with an old bootlace, stored in the bottom of his traveling trunk. It would be years before he could bring himself to read them again.

He'd visited Jefferson for the last time the May before he died. The former President was confined to his sofa at Monticello, barely able to walk comfortably from place to place.

"This is the first time I've gone very long without my daily horseback rides about the grounds. I'm rather missing them," Jefferson had said mildly.

"Withdrawal?" Alfred asked jokingly, though he couldn't find much of a heart to tease the elderly man when said man could barely move.

"Did you go through this at 83, Alfred? Because I can't imagine you bedridden for long. However did you put up with it?"

"I'm not breaking down, unlike you," Alfred replied. "And I've never been 83."

"I seem to recall you being, most likely, older than me, seeing as you've hardly changed since I was a sprightly young 30-year-old."

"You've got Ben's twinkle in your eye again," was Alfred's only response. "I think it's catching."

"That's quite possibly true." Jefferson paused. In their nearly 50 years of working together, Alfred had learned to differentiate his long pauses from his end-of-conversations quite well. This just happened to be a particularly long pause.

"When I'm gone—"

"You're not going anywhere," Alfred interrupted, glaring at Jefferson for having such a thought. Jefferson merely smiled sadly.

"Regardless of what you may think, a man can tell when he's dying, Alfred. So when my time comes, our friend Mr. Adams will have to do everything himself. I do hope he's up to it. I don't trust his son nearly as much."

Alfred made a noise of agreement. "I wonder sometimes how he became the President. His son, not Adams."

"Well, we have to be diplomatic about things. Hopefully, John can pass on some fatherly wisdom from our era, and polish his son to where he should be."

"Nobody will ever be as good as your era at running this country," Alfred said, certainty weighing his every word.

"Don't go making dire predictions on me, Alfred. As long as someone remembers what America stands for…" he shot Alfred a pointed, twinkly glance, "this country has hope."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred was woken from his daydreaming by a very British voice, very close by.

"I say, the weather is really rather beastly here."

Glancing around, he caught sight of a blond man wearing a neatly pressed suit at hat that looked a little formal for a stroll in the park. At the same moment, it seemed, the blond man caught sight of him.

Alfred could focus only on his eyebrows. They were caterpillar-thick, but also bothered him immensely. Who had he met with caterpillar eyebrows before?

It didn't really matter at the moment, seeing as the man made his way over right then, his intention clearly to commandeer the empty spot on the bench beside Alfred.

"Excuse me, my good man, but would you mind if I joined you?"

Alfred shook his head, scooting over and re-folding his newspaper while shooting the man his most winning smile. "Please feel free."

The British man sat down, smiling gratefully as he did so. "Thank you kindly." After a moment's pause, he continued, "It's really quite warm here, in these eastern states of yours."

"I've never been to England so I can't say I agree," Alfred replied. "Who're you meeting?"

"Meeting?"

"You know, the stiff suit you got there. That's definitely why you're so hot, so surely you'd be wearing something else unless you had something important to do."

The British man sniffed. "This is my everyday attire, thank you. I am not meeting anybody specific."

"Well, you just met me, yeah?" Alfred grinned. The other rolled his eyes. Alfred noticed that they were bright green. Why were they bothering him so much? "Anyway, what's a British guy like you doing over here on the 4th of July? That's got to be more than a bit strange for you."

He snorted. "More than you can imagine…" he muttered.

"What's that?"

"Nothing of importance. Yes, it is a tad odd, but no more than if you'd shown up in Ireland on St Patrick's Day having no idea that it was of such importance."

"As in, very odd?"

"Precisely."

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the crowd go by, a celebration in full swing. One relished in the people, one in the peace of their park bench corner.

"Would you like to go somewhere? Get a drink or something?" Alfred asked.

The British man raised one huge eyebrow. "Considering that our first encounter was minutes ago, I'd say that that would be a strange thing to do."

"Oh, humor me. It's my birthday, and I need some company."

"Your birthday?" the other echoed, his eyebrows going even higher. Then he sighed. "Well, I guess I can't deny someone a drink on their birthday. But first, your name?" Alfred grinned broadly.

"I'm Alfred F Jones, pleased to make your acquaintance!"

The British man gave a noticeable start. "My name is Arthur Kirkland. Likewise, charmed."

_That _was where he was familiar from. Alfred's mind flashed back to a Boston dock years ago, where he'd been approached by a strange pirate-delegate with equally strange eyebrows, and the same name. Perhaps this man was a descendant of his, one with a very strong resemblance… or it was just coincidence. Either way, he was company, and this was shaping up to be an interesting birthday.

"Let's get going then, Artie!"  
>"Do <em>not<em> call me that!"

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So, despite the fact that this was an omake, it wound up having a few plot points. Yay!<br>The last scene is set a bit into the future from where the story's currently at, in case you were wondering. But Jefferson dying doesn't play a main part in the story itself, so I had to put that in there. Also, omakes are just MADE for cameos!

Also, history!  
>Nek, as I'm sure you remember, means "mother" in Algonquin. Mukki is a name that actually means something like "child". Matunaaga means "fights," so I envision an aggressive child here, scaring off poor little Alfred's deer.<br>On July 4th, 1826, both Jefferson and Adams died. John Quincy Adams was President at the time. Jefferson actually sent a letter shortly before his death (already knowing he was on his way out) to Adams, explaining that everything was in his hands now, but Adams died before he received it.

I figure Alfred (and any Nation, really) likes to people-watch. I would, if I were him.

Also, I love writing England. He's just that lovely combination of gentlemanly and snarky that's so fun to mess with.

See you in a few days with a real chapter!


	15. Final Goodbye

I have returned!

Okay, so I kind of already returned, as you may know from the Birthday Omake, which I published just minutes after midnight on the 4th, much to my chagrin. But I have now _officially_ returned, with a real chapter! It's entirely about Alfred's personal situation, with no historical references (the first chapter to do so, may I add), because he as multiple loose ends to tie up before moving on with the plot.

... And now I will embark on the thanking of reviewers, of which there are _so many__! _Thank you guys ten thousand times over!  
>*Deep breath* Thanks to Pain and Betrayal, RenofAmestris, Maiya123, Divinehearts, ShippudenFlower, Ember Hinote, Miri, petaltailify97, Hikari Kaiya, Oniongrass, Samuelljacksin, RomericaGO, RasalynnLynx, ShadedRogue (and the Reviews Lounge), Night's Flower, and Zeplerfer for reviewing the last chapter, and again Ember Hinote, petaltailify97, Oniongrass, and ninja82 for reviewing the omake!<p>

ALSO thanks to *second deep breath* AkiTsuki-chan, I Am Sweden, Unknown Variable, Natusyuki, shadowwolf64, typicalyaoifangirl, Red Night Moon Sky, Kai Luna, Zeplerfer, Breathing Fire, CyilSyderik, Sunako-s-wrath, marianbri, chibibeanie, PrussiaRocks, Castor Black, Gibbelbeans3, Anylinde, bookworm12091, and again to ninja82 for your favorites and alerts!

*sigh* Done!  
>I feel so popular... Thanks again, all of you, for being such amazing people! And while I'm at it, thanks to all of my anonymous readers too, and to those just starting to read this story. You're great too!<p>

Anyway, here's the chapter!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>Alfred's brain felt rather fuzzy.<p>

It was like moving in a daydream, really. He was aware that things were happening around him, but they never stayed in the forefront of his mind long enough to register.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that he had returned to Boston. That it was the first time since the Revolution was pushed aside as a minor detail, to be pondered in greater thought later. That he still considered coming to Boston a bit like coming home was a bit of self-evaluation that he didn't quite feel up to at the moment.

But, standing in the rain outside the doors of the Wetherby estate, Alfred was very much aware that he probably should be feeling something other than mild confusion.

As he made his way inside, dripping unceremoniously on the polished wooden floor, he concluded that his current state of mind was a vast improvement over the wreck he'd become at Jefferson's. Either way, he'd have to put on a good show of not caring, because to all these people who filled the central hall of the Wetherby house, Alfred was a complete nobody. He was a stranger at his sister's funeral, and after a few moments of thought, he realized how grim that statement sounded.

Unwilling to mingle with the crowd lest he bump into one of the Wetherbys (or anybody, really, he wasn't ready for people), he decided to do what he'd always done at Jefferson's fancy Presidential galas. He grabbed a glass of some unknown drink from a table, slunk into a corner, and pretended that he didn't exist. It was a strategy that had served him well among the big political names, because frankly, nobody wanted to talk to the President's young assistant when the President himself was in the same hall.

Alfred's wallflower exercises were going quite well until, in a moment of spacing out disguised as slightly mournful pondering, he was bumped into. His glass, grasped very loosely anyway, clattered to the floor and shattered. The remaining drink (all of it, because he hadn't had a sip) splashed across his shoes. He noted vaguely that it was, judging by the smell, punch. He didn't even have time to wonder if it would stain before a voice screeched in his ear.

"_Alfred Jones!"_

Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin. He glanced madly about, his newly soaked shoes temporarily forgotten, until his eyes lit on a very small, curiously purple person standing next to him. It took him a moment to realize that the screeching was still going on.

"You're just as abysmally coordinated as ever! Honestly, can't even knock you with my handbag without you breaking something! My word, boy, will you ever learn?"

Peering closer, Alfred realized that the small purple person was, in fact, a small purple old lady with a massive purple hat and an equally massive purple handbag.

"Sorry, ma'am," Alfred said, not really knowing why he was apologizing, because the only lady had done a pretty good job of avoiding the spill. She didn't have a drop on her.

Suddenly, the fact that she'd addressed him by name struck him. "Er… do I know you?" he asked, hoping she'd be a bit quieter, because at the moment, she was doing a spectacular job of ruining his invisibility.

"I lived next door to you for ten years, you dunderhead!"

Risking a glance at her face beneath her hat, Alfred saw wrinkled features that he certainly didn't recognize, but the angry set of her eyebrows definitely rang a bell. The purple old lady was suddenly an equally purple young girl, with long, dark hair and a loud voice, who screeched more often than she spoke.

"Dorothea Prewitt?"

The old lady's glare sharpened. "That's Mrs. Dorothea Finnegan to you! I can't believe you had the audacity to miss the wedding! He's dead now, of course, my husband, but it's the principle of the thing! I always knew you were a rude, disrespectful boy."

"_Rude!_" Alfred exclaimed indignantly, falling back into a long-forgotten pattern of arguments, never mind that he didn't look like someone who should remember all that. "I never bothered you _once_, because Em thought you were a nice girl and wouldn't let me! _You_ were always the one who never shared your candy and threw _rocks_ at me whenever I left the house!" The rocks had only started when the elder Prewitts had bought the idea of Alfred's _unnaturalness_, but Alfred didn't want to think about that.

"Well, at least I stuck around, unlike you, who up and disappeared without good reason! Couldn't be bothered for so much as a decent goodbye! You tore poor Emeline up, I'll have you know!"

Alfred opened his mouth to respond that he hadn't wanted to leave, it tore him up too, but he had to keep his family safe, and why did _Dorothea Prewitt_ care so much, but she just kept going. "You've grown up some while you've been away. You don't look like a scrawny ten-year-old anymore, at least, but I'd recognize that hair of yours anywhere."

Alfred instinctively reached up to flatten his cowlick, while the old lady chuckled madly. He was worried she was going to keep going when a voice called from behind her,

"Aunt Dot!"

The old purple lady spun (more like tottered) around, and exclaimed in a sugary-sweet voice, completely different from the one she'd used with Alfred, "Peter, darling! How good to see you!"

Sure enough, over the top of Dorothea's purple hat, Alfred caught sight of a slightly red-faced, significantly older looking Peter Wetherby. His cheeks were in the process of being pinched to bits by Dorothea's razor-sharp fingernails, turning his face even redder.

"Have you been eating properly? You're looking a bit peaked… come closer, dear, I can't see your face…" Dorothea continued, yanking Peter down to her eye level by his necktie. Peter just smiled good-naturedly and allowed it. When he was at last released, he shot glance at Alfred over her shoulder.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Hello, Peter."

"Oh, so you've met my favorite godson already, Alfred?" Dorothea exclaimed, interrupting from between them. "You'd better be treating him well! If I hear one word from Peter that you've been the same old insufferable brat I've always remembered, you'll have me to answer to!" She shook her fist in Alfred's direction before tottering off to bother someone else. Alfred resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her retreating figure, turning to Peter instead.

"Er…" Peter said, watching the slightly hunched back as it was swallowed by the crowd in the main hall, "what was that all about?"

"She bumped into me, and has been mistaking me for some neighbor of hers for some time now," Alfred said smoothly.

"Oh." They both paused, a bit unsure of how to continue. After having no contact for several years, it was hard to pick up where they left off, as assistant and assistant's-assistant.

"So… um… nice to see you again," Peter said. "I'm glad you could make it all the way from Washington. Father was a bit worried that you wouldn't get the letter in time."

"No, I got it all right."

"Mm. Good."

"Are you… are you all right?" Alfred asked. It had been a few years, but Peter had looked so young the last time he'd seen him, in that abruptly aborted carriage ride away from Washington, that to see him looking so old was disturbing. Sadness added years to a face, Alfred knew.

"I'm fine," Peter replied, which Alfred knew was a lie.

Silence filled the space between them again. Alfred looked about for anything else to occupy his attention but the boy before him who happened to be his nephew. Oddly enough, the only thing he could think coherently about was the fact that Peter had called Dorothea his aunt, putting Alfred on her level. He shuddered, as if shaking off the comparison.

Noticing the shudder, Peter asked, "Are you cold? You look a bit damp." Glancing down, his eyes found the shards from the shattered punch glass at Alfred's feet. "Oh, I'll get someone to clean that up…" he muttered, and hastily bustled off, leaving Alfred alone again.

Having nothing else better to do, Alfred stood in the same place until Peter reappeared, a maid in tow. Once the mess was clean, the awkward silence resumed.

"How do you know Aunt Dot?" Peter asked, abruptly shattering the quiet. "I mean, even if she was mistaking you for a neighbor, she still knew your name…"

Alfred's brain flicked through possible answers, something he'd gotten used to doing when people asked a revealing question. Childhood friends was definitely out of the question, particularly because he'd never liked Dorothea Prewitt as a child in the first place, and because she looked a good forty years older than him. Neighbors would require some explanation that he'd be hard-pressed to give, and would contradict his life story. He could, however, blame it on Dorothea.

"She called me someone else first. I corrected her, but she just kept going anyway. She seemed a bit off her rocker anyway."

Much to Alfred's relief, Peter nodded, accepting the story. "Yes, Aunt Dot isn't all there anymore, I'm afraid. It must be her old age getting to her. But she was mother's best friend, and my godmother, so it's not like we can just leave her be."

Alfred, if he had been holding anything, would have dropped it. As it was, he stared at Peter, shock written across his features. "She's Em's _best friend?_"

"Em?" Peter asked. Alfred could have smacked himself. "You mean my mother?"

"Yes, your mother," Alfred replied, attempting a quick recovery. "Her name is Emeline, isn't it?"

"Yes," Peter said slowly, "but she refused to let anyone call her Em. Not even my father does—did. Why are you so surprised anyway?"

"Well," Alfred said, bitterness creeping into his words, "she and Dor—Mrs. Finnegan don't seem like the type that would get along well. Emeline was always so well-mannered, and Mrs. Finnegan's an old bat."

"Don't insult my family, Alfred," Peter said icily. "If you must know, my mother lost a very good friend of hers when she was younger, someone who was like a big brother to her. Aunt Dot befriended my mother then, helping her cope, and they've been very close ever since."

Alfred was at a loss. "Oh," he muttered. _That's your twelfth guilt trip today_, his mind unhelpfully supplied, and he wondered again why he was keeping track.

Peter sighed. "Anyway, my father wanted me to find you. He says you need to meet him in his office."

"Why?" Alfred asked, genuinely surprised. What could Paul Wetherby possibly want with him?

Peter just shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. Come on, I'll take you there."

_V~-~-~V_

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea?"

Alfred shook his head. He sat in an armchair, stiff and awkward, in front of the desk in Paul Wetherby's office. "I had some punch earlier, thanks," he half-lied, leaving out the bit when Dorothea spilled it all on his shoes.

The lawyer sighed, pouring himself a cup of tea anyway. He set it down on his desk to steep, and settled in the squishy-looking office chair opposite Alfred.

"How are you doing, Mr. Jones?"

Slightly taken aback, Alfred replied, "I'm doing all right, sir. I really should be asking you that."

Paul fingered a pen on his desk for a moment, before setting it down with a sigh. "She'll be buried beside her parents. That should make her happy."

That stung. "I'm sure it would," Alfred said.

Paul nodded, but said nothing, allowing the silence to settle between them. When it became clear he didn't intend to speak first, Alfred said, "Thanks for helping me get into Harvard. I'll be starting this fall."

The other man seemed to brighten a bit at this change of subject, but quickly faded back to his former expression. "You're very welcome." He paused briefly before saying, "Emeline was happy to hear that you were applying. She said you were, 'finally doing something with your life'."

Alfred swallowed. "I'm glad she approved, sir."

Paul waved his hand. "Stop with the formalities. It's nice to meet someone with manners, but please, just call me Paul."

Alfred nodded slowly. Whatever had caused this change in attitude, it was certainly rather abrupt. He didn't even know the man that well, and he was putting them on first-name basis.

"Call me Alfred, then."

A twitch of a smile from the man across the desk. "Of course, Alfred."

Before the silence could return, Alfred spoke again. "Peter said you wanted to see me. Was it for something in particular, or just to chat?"

"Actually," Paul said, speaking slowly, deliberation on every word, "I wanted to tell you a bit of a story."

Alfred nodded, a bit uncertain. Paul was a lawyer; he didn't just "tell stories."

Before Alfred could wonder, Paul plunged on. "I grew up on a farm, with all of my younger brothers and sisters. I loved all of them, and I knew our parents did too, but as the oldest and the heir, I was naturally the focus of more of their attentions."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt, because Paul looked like a man confessing, and he couldn't quite fathom why. Surely, his childhood had nothing to do with Emeline? But Alfred didn't interrupt, just kept listening as the older-looking man laid his thoughts out.

"I never had much interest in farming. My younger brother, Orin, loved the animals and the crops we grew, and was always set to take over. So I decided to go to law school instead, to make my parents proud with a professional position and a degree."

"All of my other siblings had some sort of plans too. Baird wanted to be a fisherman, Lillian wanted to move west, Irene wanted a quiet family and a townhouse in Boston, and Sally carried the family's hopes of an upstanding marriage, because she was the youngest and prettiest."

A budding sense of foreboding told Alfred that he didn't like the direction this conversation was taking, but he was powerless to stop it. Paul's words washed over him in waves, soft and relentless, and Alfred could do naught but listen.

"I had one other sibling, a brother." Paul swallowed, clearly uncomfortable as well broaching this subject. "His name was Zachariah, but we all called him Zach."

"He never had a plan in life. He was never much good at farming, and had little to no aspirations of achievement. While I had my grand dreams and left home for college, he had no idea what he was going to do. Our father never said it to his face, but he always thought Zach a useless son."

"And one day, he just disappeared. I got a panicked letter from my mother at my university, saying that he'd vanished and no one knew where he'd gone. A few weeks passed, and all of us were worried sick, until we got a single, brief letter from Zach telling us that he'd joined the Continental Army."

Paul took another deep breath, his eyes meeting Alfred's quickly before flitting away again. Alfred was doing his best to look impassive, but was fairly certain that he wasn't doing a good enough job.

"I wrote to him personally, asking what had possessed him to go and do something so utterly rash and idiotic. He replied, again very briefly. He said only, 'I don't want to spend my entire life being useless'."

"And that was the last time any of us heard from him, until he wrote again, and told us about someone he'd met in the army, a fellow foot soldier like him." Paul's eyes met Alfred's, holding his gaze in an iron grip. No matter how much he would have liked to pull away, Alfred found he couldn't; not from those brown eyes so much like Zach's. Clearing his throat, Alfred spoke.

"His name was Alfred Jones, wasn't it." It wasn't a question, because Alfred already knew the answer.

Paul nodded, looking away again. "His name was Alfred Jones," he repeated, in a voice almost a whisper.

"We received a message telling us that Zach was dead a month after Monmouth. We all tried to find this Alfred Jones, just to see if he was alive still. In those few letters, it was clear to all of us that the Army and this Alfred, however much we wanted to deny it, were the two best things that had ever happened to our brother."

"But we couldn't find him, and eventually gave up. I graduated from law school and settled in Boston, opening up my practice. Eventually, I met Emeline, fell in love, and a year later, we were married."

"I'd always thought it was a strange coincidence that Emeline's last name was Jones, the same name as the boy from Boston my brother had met, until shortly before Peter was born. She had, when we were considering names for him, suggested Alfred."

Alfred's breath hitched. So she had still cared, after all, enough to almost name her son after him. Paul paused at the sound, glancing again at Alfred before continuing.

"I asked her why, and she told me the story of a brother who left her family when she was still a young girl, all for their protection. The story of a boy found on the side of the road and adopted, who never seemed to get any older no matter how long he stayed."

"And you believed her?" Alfred asked, and suddenly, he realized just how much the answer of that question would mean to him.

"I was skeptical at first. I am, after all, a lawyer with a better education than most. But she was Emeline, and Emeline never lied, especially not about important things. I sought other explanations at first for why someone wouldn't appear to age, something scientifically creditable, but came up empty. Eventually, I was forced to admit that her story was true. I was also forced to admit that, based on Zach and Emeline's descriptions of the man, that their Alfred Joneses were one and the same."

Alfred smiled wryly, a half-quirk of his lips. "That's quite the story."

Paul gave him a slight smile in return. "I'd hoped you would enjoy it."

It became clear that Paul had nothing more to say, so Alfred stood to leave. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, "but I'm glad it was you that Emeline was able to spend her life with."

Paul smiled again. "I appreciate your saying so."

Alfred turned to go, but was stopped again. "Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything you've done… just, thank you."

_V~-~-~V_

Emeline's coffin was borne away on a carriage, with the entire funeral party following. Dressed in black (save for Dorothea), they made their silent parade down the damp streets to the cemetery.

It was a tiny place, beside the little church that Alfred remembered attending as a child. Everything from the single spire, to the stained-glass window above the door that was the church's pride and joy, to the façade too intricate for a small-town church, he recalled intimately. He could picture the wooden pews inside, worn from years of people sitting on them, the little hymn books in every rack from which Sarah had taught him to read English, and the little old priest who had described to Alfred personally the then-strange concept of one god. He smiled at that, remembering Sarah's horror at his nonexistent religious education, and how she'd set up that meeting herself to inspire him. Emeline had laughed at him for weeks after that.

Turning, Alfred looked away from the building and back towards the wake. He stood back in the crowd, allowing close friends and family to push ahead of him. A priest had arrived, different from the one Alfred remembered. _Of course he is_, Alfred thought, chastising himself for that fleeting hope of anything else.

The priest spoke, but Alfred didn't listen. The whole ceremony felt superficial, like Emeline would appear beside him at any moment, wearing that striped green dress she'd had in Washington. _"What are you looking at, Alfie? I'm right here!"_

But she wasn't. The coffin lowered, and Alfred kept watching, even as the priest left, as other mourners left, until it was just he and the Wetherbys, watching until the last clod of earth was dropped and the man holding the shovel that had delivered it left too.

The Wetherbys turned then, in the unison Alfred noticed developed in large, close families. They all seemed to notice him at once, and Alfred had to look away from that veritable sea of chocolate brown eyes, punctuated by a single pair that was painfully sky blue.

Paul gently tapped his shoulder as he passed, something supposed to be a kind gesture and an indication that they were done here, there was nothing more to see. But Alfred just shook it off, stepping closer to the grave instead of away. They left him, throwing backward glances as a group, but he ignored them as he crouched on the wet ground outside the church.

The earth overturned was still fresh, a rich brown. Remembering what Paul had said, Alfred glanced to the right. Sure enough, there were two more tombstones, identical to the one before him, albeit more weathered.

_Franklin Peter Jones_ and _Sarah Felicity Jones_, they read. He smiled faintly at the sight of them, wondering why he never knew that this was where they'd been buried, that so many weekly visits to this place had culminated with two slabs of stone in the ground. It was sad, really. But if Sarah's God was to be believed, all three would have found each other again.

_But where does that leave me?_

Alfred stood, wanting to leave before he started crying. He'd already had his breakdown; he feared that if he started again, he'd never stop. Daring a parting glance at the stone before him, he was surprised to see an inscription where the other two were blank.

_Emeline Sarah Jones_

_Loving daughter, wife, friend, and sister._

Alfred smiled down at the stone, embedding the final word in his heart, because he would always remember her as nothing more, nothing less, than his sister.

"Goodbye, Emeline."

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>I think that was the longest chapter yet. I hope you enjoyed it, despite its gratuitous amounts of depressing things and the fact that it was centered entirely around a funeral. Next chapter, we shall move forward in history, skipping a few of the more boring years in the 1820s, because nothing of import that would make good plot really happens then.<p>

Some explaining? I think yes.

Paul drew those conclusions on his own. Emeline helped some, yes, but it was him and his lawyerly mind that made the important connections to figure out Alfred's identity. No, he hasn't told Peter yet. Yet.  
>Yes, Peter is named after Franklin (I didn't just run out of names).<br>The Wetherby estate is on the outskirts of Boston, near enough to New Haven that the wake could go there. So, more on the outskirts of New Haven than Boston, I guess, though they're quite close anyway.  
>Sally is the sister whose dowry Zach's military paycheck was funding, if you recall chapter 5. I don't expect you to, which is why I mention it here.<br>Nobody knew where Alfred went after the Revolution, not even Emeline, which is why tracking him down didn't happen. Also, Paul's never had much interaction with Alfred face-to-face before, hence why he didn't "tell his story" earlier.

On a side note, all of the Wetherby siblings are based off relatives of mine (my father's cousin's cousin's name is Orin, and he owns a farm, etc.). Dorothea Prewitt/Finnegan is based off of my great-aunt Dot, who's completely barmy too.

Thanks for reading, despite the depressive-ness! As always, if you have anything to say, I would appreciate any time you took to review!


	16. Opportunity

Lookie here, another chapter!

We're moving on from all that funeral business, so the beginning's a bit of an explanation... and due to the lack of things I want to incorporate into this story between 1820 and 1840, there are some considerable year gaps. You have my apologies in advance.

First of all, thank you so much to RasalynnLynx, xxEu-chan, SpiritMusician, Oniongrass, WeAllFlyHigh, ShippudenFlower, SamanthaMeloes, Night's Flower, Ember Hinote, Sunako-s-wrath, and Jillo96 for your lovely reviews!  
>Also, thanks to PhantomMemories, booklover98, Xaria and Gelace and Dreampaw (all one person, apparently... or are you three in disguise?), SharinganWeasel, and WhitestormX, and again to SamanthaMeloes and Jillo98 for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On with the story!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p><em>1830<em>

Alfred took one last look around his small room, checking that everything was in order. There were no objects on the shelves, no foodstuffs in the cabinets, no clothes in the closet, and no random things strewn about on the floor.

Bending down, he deposited the last of his books into a crate that his landlady had been kind enough to lend him. Smiling almost fondly down at them, he knew that that crate would be the heaviest of the lot. Law textbooks were not light by any stretch of imagination.

Hefting the full crate up with one arm, he hoisted it onto his shoulder. Grabbing the trunk that held his clothes and more important personal belongings with the other, he trundled down the stairs.

"Alfred! Put those boxes down this instant, you'll surely break your back!"

Glancing sideways at his landlady, Alfred flashed a cheerful grin. "Oh, I'm fine Ms. Spencer! They're not all that bad!" But at her twittering insistence, he put them down on the wood-paneled floor of the main dining hall.

He'd been staying in the same Boston apartment since the start of his first term at Harvard. It had started out as a one-week stint at the bed-and-breakfast, but Ms. Spencer (being the motherly type) had offered him a discount to stay on. When he explained that almost all of his savings were going towards paying the expensive Harvard tuition, she let him stay anyway, as long as he helped cook in the evenings.

And now, after so long in that now-familiar routine that he had centered his whole life around, he was leaving.

"Are you sure you have all of your things? If you left anything behind, I'll keep it for you, don't worry. Do you have a future address I could send it to you at? Speaking of which, you simply _must_ write, Alfred dear, I can't _stand_ the thought of never hearing from you again! And when you come back to Boston (do not give me that look, I know you will!), make sure to visit me, or I'll set Rupert on you!"

Alfred glanced over at Rupert. The dog in question was lying on the floor beside the door, most likely sleeping. He'd been quite energetic when Alfred had first arrived, but he was getting on in his years now. "Rupert would never agree to that, he's my buddy!" Alfred retorted.

"Quite right dear, quite right… now let me get you a hand with those things of yours. Truly, you've done a very good job of moving in!"

"I have lived here for ten years."

"I know, I almost can't believe you're leaving… And I still don't understand why you must! Boston isn't good enough for you, I suppose?"

Alfred sighed and looked away, having told the story hundreds of times already. After he'd finished up getting his degree at Harvard, he'd gone on to a paid internship-style job at the law firm of a man named Richards. He'd enjoyed working there enough, and he made enough money to get by fairly comfortably (helped by the fact that Ms. Spencer never did demand any rent). But right on cue, just as he'd settled down, he realized that he'd spent too long in one place. People at the firm had started whispering, and Alfred wasn't as oblivious to their comments as he pretended. Ms. Spencer was far too kind to say anything, but it was clear from her sidelong glances that she wondered.

And right now, rather than making him feel at home, Boston was making him jittery. It was a very different place from when he'd first lived there; the buildings were larger, the town itself had expanded beyond its original borders, and even the ships coming in to the port had undergone a change for the bigger. The sheer volume of cargo and the speed at which it was transported never ceased to amaze him.

Sometimes, he wished that the city would never change, had never changed.

But even America was changing, at a remarkably rapid pace. Since the War of 1812 had ended, Indiana, Mississippi, Illinois, Alabama, Maine, and Missouri had all become states. Jackson (the man who had won the Battle of New Orleans) had become President just the previous year, already the seventh in a country that was becoming very successful very quickly. It gave Alfred an undeniable sense of pride whenever he thought about it, mixed with an equally undeniable sadness that it was passing him by so fast.

In his mind, it was all the more reason to get away from Boston.

"It's fine," Alfred said, for the millionth time. "I just need something different."

Ms. Spencer huffed again, her skirts settling about her thin frame as she did so. "Well, we can't have you breaking your back before you come to your senses and stay here." Turning toward the tables, she hollered, "Alfred needs help with his things, and there will be no dessert for any of you if he doesn't get some!"

Several men leapt up, making their way to the base of the stairs, where Alfred and Ms. Spencer stood. "Oh, you're all such dears," the woman said, watching as three men lifted Alfred's trunk with a great heave.

"What've you got in here, son? All the bricks in the Boston shipyard?" one gasped.

Alfred laughed cheerily. "Oh, nothing like that! Just some law books and my scrap metal collection!"

Two of the men laughed at the attempted joke, while the third looked at them with mild confusion. Together, they carted his trunk out to Alfred's rented wagon, heaving it into the back before dusting their hands and returning to the dining hall. "Where're you off to anyway?" the talkative one asked.

"I haven't really figured that out yet," Alfred said with a grin. "Probably somewhere out west. I've already been everywhere there is to go out here!"

The man's eyes widened. "Out west, as in, Oregon territory?"

Alfred shrugged. "It's a possibility, I guess."

The man gave a low whistle. Then he thumped Alfred on the back and said, "Well, best of luck to you, son! You're going to need it."

_V~-~-~V_

Sitting at a small restaurant in Independence, Missouri, Alfred realized that he was an awful optimistic person.

In his opinion, it wasn't his fault, really. It was just that, with America doing such great things and all its amazing forward progress, it was hard to believe that he too couldn't follow in his country's footsteps.

Reluctantly, he now had to admit that it wasn't so easy. He'd been travelling for ten years, and it had been one unhappiness after another, it seemed, starting with the Indian Removal Act when he'd first arrived.

v~v

"_Indians to be removed from the South!" the headline screamed. "New Jackson legislation put into effect!"_

_The article went on to describe the "voluntary" departure of the Five Civilized Tribes. All of them, Alfred thought bitterly, were recognized as autonomous nations. Washington had said so, all those years ago. Jefferson had agreed, and had followed in Washington's footsteps to help make those tribes into practical, agriculture-based societies that could coexist with the European immigrants living nearby. And Jackson thought he had the right to just… throw them out._

_The first thing that came to Alfred's mind was that he really, really needed to have a chat with this new President._

_The second thing was the thudding realization that he didn't actually know this President. He'd never even met him (he'd never met Monroe either, but that hadn't stopped him from dropping everything to go "visit" when he'd gotten wind of the Missouri Compromise). This man was someone he'd respected for the Battle of New Orleans. And with no means (or desire) to get to Washington, Alfred felt decidedly sick._

_And the third thing was Nek._

_Alfred almost groaned into his hands as he buried his face. Nek would be absolutely furious. She'd been furious, and every single square inch that the Europeans claimed from her people made it worse. But she'd gone with it, she'd agreed, her people falling under the might of the much more unified and rapidly expanding foreigners._

_Looking back up, he dared to pick up the newspaper again. He forced himself to find the article (second page, top right) and read._

"_The Indian Removal Act, signed by President Andrew Jackson on the 28__th__ of May, year 1830, allows for the creation of treaties that, when signed by the leaders of the Indian tribes affected, will cede the lands currently owned by said tribes to the government of the United States of America, in exchange for money and proper resettlement west of the Mississippi River. This is a voluntary decision, asked by the government of the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Creek, Choctaw, and Seminole peoples, also known as the Five Civilized Tribes. The President assures that compensation shall be fair for the removal of such a large number of people, a decision that he has advocated making for several years."_

_Alfred snorted. He decidedly did not like this Jackson fellow anymore. _Voluntary, my left big toe_, he thought disparagingly, but he continued._

"_Despite the high level of support received from Southern delegates, the President encountered an unexpected level of opposition to this Act from Congress, notably from Congressman Davy Crockett of Tennessee and Senator Theodore Frelinghuysen of New Jersey. The southern support stems from land debates currently raging (particularly in the state of Georgia) with the Indian tribes in question. However, nobody on either side refutes that this Act will surely spell the inevitable removal of all Indian tribes from American states."_

_Alfred felt a sudden surging of pride for Davy Crockett. The man was already something of a folk hero, likable in almost every way, and incredibly successful, but Alfred couldn't help but appreciate him even more._

_Putting the paper down, he dimly remembered Nek mentioning that he had a sibling from the Cherokee tribe, and older brother named Mohe. He thought he'd visited once, but Alfred couldn't recall his face._

_Alfred sighed again. He hated the government for doing this to Nek, hated not knowing what to do, and hated feeling so utterly powerless to help anybody._

v~v

Back in the present, Alfred sighed again. He'd gone through another President since then, and it was election year again, leaving him with the uncertainty that anyone _good_ would actually run. Van Buren, following Jackson, had been no help whatsoever. They'd been through the Panic of 1837, the Aroostook War, and the Cherokee Nation's forced removal following Jackson's thrice-damned Act.

The Trail of Tears, they'd called it. An apt name if there ever was one.

Alfred looked despondently at his coffee mug, wishing that the creamy beverage would give him some answers.

"Why so down, son? Know someone in the obituaries?"

Alfred glanced up, startled. The man who had spoken was standing beside his table, peering at Alfred with small gray eyes though the steam of his coffee. Alfred could only muster a half-hearted glare before turning back to the paper he'd been holding for the past half hour, intent on both ignoring the man and not reading another word.

"Aw, don't be like that. Mind if I sit here?"

Normally, Alfred would have been thrilled at the prospect of meeting anyone, but he didn't think he could handle people in his dour mood. But the man didn't seem to care, and sat anyway, the chair creaking under his weight.

"So, what's the matter with you?"

Alfred scoffed lightly, thrusting the paper in the man's general direction. "Our government's being idiotic."

"Isn't it always?" the man asked. "But there's really nothing we can do, is there?" he continued, waxing rhetorical with a pondering expression on his face. Alfred just shrugged.

"Talk to me, kid," the man said, "it might help."

"Nope," Alfred replied, "I don't think it would."

"Humor me, a little. I'm leaving this week, you know."

"Going where?" Alfred asked absently.

"Oregon."

That caught his attention. "_Oregon?_ By yourself?"

"Oh, no," the man said, chuckling. "My wife and her brother are coming too."

"But—but you can't go with a wagon! Haven't you heard what they say, about the trails only being accessible on horseback?"

"Someone made it just recently to the Colombia, a three-family wagon train. Besides, anything's possible in this country!"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "And your wife actually agreed to this?"

The man had the decency to look chagrined. "Not really. But her brother has dreams of being a trapper, and she's always been a bit more open when it comes to his ideas. And she likes the thought of the land, out there. I hear the valleys in Oregon are beautiful."

Alfred shook his head. "I've been there, and believe me, for inexperienced white folk, you'll be lucky to get past Fort Hall. And it's rough country, 3,000 miles of it, all the way to the ocean. Completely unsettled except for the Natives and the trappers. You'll have a real tough time getting a farm started, if that's your goal."

But the man didn't seem to have heard any of it. "You've been? Really? With whom?"

Alfred attempted to wave the man off. "I went with an expeditionary group two years ago," he lied.

"That's fantastic! You can guide us!"

That took a moment to register. "What?"

"You've been before, so you can guide us there! We don't have anyone yet, but I like the look of you, son!" He paused. "How old are you anyway? Not over twenty…"

"Hey, I'm older than I look!" Alfred retorted. "And why do you think I want to go west anyway?"

"What's keeping you here?"

That stumped him. After a moment, he answered, "Nothing, really."

"Then come with us! Start a new life! There's free land, endless opportunity, and a chance to live a little, with nothing to do with the government or anybody out here! I even promise to help you get settled once we're there. It's the chance of a lifetime, son!"

Alfred had to admit, the offer sounded good. All he had to do was guide three people across the country, on a route he'd traveled before (thirty years ago, yes, but that was beside the point).

And as he'd said, what was holding him here?

Standing, Alfred held out his hand. "Alfred F Jones, at your service."

The man mirrored him, smiling ear to ear. "Sam Atkins. Pleased to be working with you, Mr. Jones."

Alfred returned his grin. "So, Mr. Atkins, when exactly are we leaving?"

_V~-~-~V_

"How much would it cost, per year to live in Canada, do you think?"

Matthew looked up from his desk. His government, not knowing what to do with him without wars to fight or diplomacy to be performed, had suggested that he take a temporary post at the Canadian citizenship bureau. Supposedly, it was so he could "come to know his potential countrymen." It had sounded like a good idea at the time, but since he was the new guy, he got all the _difficult_ clients.

This couple clearly was no exception.

"For a family of two, I'd say around $400 a year, sir," Matthew replied. The man, who had done all of the talking thus far, sniffed irritably. He was dressed in an obviously expensive tailored suit, and wore a hat in the latest fashion of the day.

"In American dollars, how much is that?"

"Around $400, sir."

His wife (judging by her appearance, a woman twenty years his junior), decked out in jewels and a fur wrap, sat in a chair positioned just behind her husband's. She perched primly, her white-gloved hands folded in her lap, looking disdainfully at Matthew as her husband continued.

"Is that for," the man sniffed again, "common people?"

"Yes, it's what the average family of two, on median income, spends per year on necessary supplies."

"And how accurate are these… statistics of yours?"

Matthew forced a smile, a tic developing over his brow. "Very accurate, sir. We are the citizenship bureau, after all."

"I see. I don't trust surveys, do I, my darling?" he asked, turning to his wife.

"Of course not, dearest," she replied, and the simpering expression on her face made Matthew want to throw the nearest file folder at her head. Or run for the nearest waste basket.

"Well, ours are conducted by trained experts, Mr…?"

"Ah, yes, I never introduced myself!" the man exclaimed. Puffing up (his gray suit made Matthew think of park pigeons), he stood and offered his hand. "Mr. Terrence Westcott, owner and chairman of Westcott and Sons," he paused for emphasis, "Inc."

"Charmed," Matthew said, not bothering to stand as he accepted the offered handshake. "Out of curiosity, do you actually have any sons, Mr. Westcott?"

Westcott's smile faltered. "No, I'm afraid I don't. I inherited the company from my father, you see," he replied, stiffly sitting down again.

"Do you have an heir, then?" Westcott mumbled something incoherent. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that, sir," Matthew said, slightly louder just because. "Can you please speak up?"

"I have two daughters and a no-good slacker of a nephew, _that's_ what I've got!" Westcott burst, his face turning an alarming shade of red in a matter of seconds. "But the company will never go to my brother's son, never! The boy's as much an idiot as his father!"

"I see," Matthew said calmly. "Now, getting back to the matter at hand, why is it that you wish to move to Canada?"

"I need to produce more products, and faster. Time is money, son, and do I look like I'm made of money?" Matthew bit his lip, because he did, in fact, look like he was made of money. _You probably stuff your waistcoat with it every morning_, he thought, but heavily ingrained politeness prevented him from saying so. Besides, his boss would be mad if Matthew deterred every potential tax-paying citizen sent his way.

"You do realize that Canada is under the influence of the British Crown?" Matthew inquired, a question customary for people moving from America. "Some Americans are uncomfortable with the idea."

"I just need cheap land for a factory and cheap labor to build myself one," Westcott said, waving a hand flippantly.

And that was when inspiration struck.

Smiling in a manner that only Matthew recognized as wicked, he asked, "Then what about the American West?"

"What about it?" the other asked suspiciously.

"The land out there is free, due to the American government's land grants for settlers. You can have up to 160 acres as a husband and wife, and more if you bring more relatives."

The man perked up at the sound of free land. "You wouldn't say? The poor settlers out there might be in need of some Westcott and Sons products…"

"And," Matthew supplied helpfully, "as the only major business in the area, they'd have no choice but to go to you!" Though Matthew really had no idea what the man actually sold, it sounded like good incentive to him.

"Excellent idea, my boy!" the man exclaimed, leaping up. "Can't get a deal like that in Canada, now can you? Come, Marietta, we're going west!"

With much blustering and hand-shaking, the wealthy couple was out the door. Matthew smiled as they left, happily disposing of their half-finished immigration papers in his desk waste bin.

Surely, he thought, today, he had done a good deed for all of Canada.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>First off... yay for Matthew!<p>

Okay, history time...  
>The Indian Removal Act was pretty much just as I described. Jackson signed it into law on May 28th, 1830, after sending it through the many heated debates of Congress. Georgia and the Cherokees had been fighting over land for a while before then, so he hoped that the legislation would end their disagreement (basically, by forcing the other party out). The Five Civilized Tribes (as they were referred to) had been slowly indoctrinated into European culture in hopes of coexisting, starting in Washington's time. Jackson basically ruined this with the Act, and though it was supposed to be voluntary, there was a lot of pressure put on the tribes to sign the treaty agreements that ceded their homeland away.<br>The Trail of Tears is the name given to the Cherokee Nation's forced migration from their homes to the Oklahoma area. Thousands of natives lost their lives during the journey, hence the name.  
>"The Panic of 1837" was an economic recession. In those days, they were called "panics," which amuses me.<br>The Aroostook War wasn't really a war, and it's sometimes referred to as "The Pork and Beans War". It was an undeclared, nonviolent confrontation between the US and Great Britain over the border between the state of Maine and Canada. Both sides armed troops and send them to the border, but the diplomats got there and a compromise was reached before anything happened.  
>Independence, Missouri was where the first wagon to use the Oregon Trail left from. I wanted to have Alfred go sometime in the early '30s, but as I researched, I learned that the first wagon train didn't head west until 1840... hence the large year gap. Oh, the things I do to be historically accurate...<br>In September of 1840, Robert Newell, Joseph L Meek, and their families reached Fort Walla Walla with three wagons, coming from Fort Hall. They were the first to reach the Colombia River over land, and opened the final leg of the journey (previously only taken on horseback) for wagons.  
>1841 was when the first party was officially credited with using the Oregon Trail to take wagons west. They originally were bound for California, but split up in Idaho, thus half wound up in the Willamette Valley in Oregon.<p>

Anyway, random explanation time!  
>Alfred's strength came up in this chapter, as I promised one reviewer it would. I hope you took note.<br>He considers the other tribes' representations (they have them) his siblings. They've been briefly mentioned before, but this is the first one who's been named.  
>The folks Matthew talks to, the Westcotts, will return... they're not just there for no reason, you know.<br>I love Matthew.

And finally, because I get loads of questions in every review, I'd like to address the most commonly asked ones here instead, for the benefit of all those other people who read this story. So if you've got a question about anything that's happened in this story, or about the way any of the characters are portrayed, or even about the direction this story will take (no promises on this one), I'll try to answer them here!

Until next time! And, as always, if you have the time, any comments or reviews are greatly appreciated!


	17. Oregon Bound: Part I

Hello again! Time for another chapter!

As I mentioned at the very bottom of last chapter, I've decided to answer any clarifying/random/hint-hint questions that people post in reviews after each chapter. Thus, you will find a few questions answered at the bottom of this chapter, and if you wish to ask one, don't hesitate!

Thank you very much to Oniongrass, Ember Hinote, SamanthaMeloes, Sunako-s-wrath, Zeplerfer, Mary, WeAllFlyHigh, Jillo96, and Aestiva for reviewing! And special thanks to petaltailify97, for being my 100th reviewer!  
>Thanks as well to Sailor Greeny, Scylla J. Lacrimas, aceotaku, and again to Oniongrass and Aestiva for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>The day before their departure, Sam had arranged to meet with Alfred to iron out the details of their journey. Alfred, previously unaware that there were any details to be ironed out, realized quickly that his, "just follow the path, and it'll get us there eventually" plan wasn't going to work as well as he hoped.<p>

There was also the slight downside of having not gone west in over thirty years, but Alfred was confident that he could manage. After all, how hard could following a trail be when you'd already made your own?

Sam seemed to have other ideas.

"Now see here, Alfred! You have to go where people have gone before! Otherwise you could get lost, or run into Injuns, or find yourself with no food or water! We're going to follow the path!"

"There's not much of one!" Alfred retorted. "Only a few groups have actually bothered to go yet! As long as we keep going west, there's no possibility of getting lost, I've participated in negotiations with natives before, and I can keep myself and you lot perfectly healthy in the wild, if need be!"

"That's all well and good, but we're still going to follow the path," Sam said resolutely. Alfred gave a sigh of defeat.

"Fine, fine."

Instantly, Sam brightened. "Now, from what I've heard, there are a few important landmarks to keep you on track with. Do you know of them?"

Alfred nodded hesitantly, hurriedly trying to recall newspaper articles he'd read on the people going west. "For starters, there's… er, Chimney Rock. Then there's Fort William, and Independence Rock, and Fort Hall…"

Sam nodded in agreement, still smiling. "Wonderful! As long as you can get us there!"

"Of course we'll get there," Alfred assured him.

An hour, one donkey, and a 15th century French bureau later, his confidence in that statement had diminished rather significantly.

"_This_ is your wagon?"

"Yes… why?"

"It's…" Alfred found himself at a loss. The wagon was small, certainly not the eleven-by-four accepted standard. It was also missing several planks, had broken spokes in nearly every wheel, and the canvas cover resembled a moth-eaten patchwork sail.

"Couldn't you have… fixed it up a bit?"

"I did," Sam replied. "You should have seen it before."

Almost afraid to ask, Alfred inquired, "What about your oxen?"

"Oxen? We have a donkey, what do we need them for?"

After much convincing on Alfred's part that a donkey would be insufficient, and they did need oxen to pull the wagon if they expected to get anywhere, Sam went out and bought a pair.

"And that bureau needs to go. Sell it, or give it to one of your neighbors."

Sam looked at him, aghast. "I can't do that! My wife will murder me!"

"Are you at _all_ prepared for this?" Alfred asked, exasperatedly.

"You can't expect a bureau to make it across the country, over mountains and rivers and the Great Plains, in a half-broken wagon pulled by two oxen you bought fifteen minutes ago from some man you just met on the street!"

"But we can't just give it _away_," Sam replied. "My wife's great-grandmother brought it all the way from England! You know how fond those English are of French things, no matter how they deny it, quite frivolous really… but it's still a family heirloom!"

"It's also a good couple hundred pounds," Alfred deadpanned. "It's not coming."

But nothing Alfred said could sway Sam. He resolved to try and convince his wife, when he met her. Surely she could see common sense.

"Are you ready at _all_ for this?" he finally asked exasperatedly.

"Sure we are! We've packed everything already, haven't we?"

"Oh. Well, good job there, I guess." Alfred wondered why Sam looked so pleased at that, especially when it was coming from someone he'd just spent the last hour arguing with.

"Would you like to meet my family?"

"… Of course."

_V~-~-~V_

A few minutes later, Alfred stood outside the Atkins house.

It was nice.

Very nice.

Columns-on-the-front-porch nice.

Far too nice for people who were leaving it behind to travel across the country on a rickety covered wagon for lands unknown.

Noticing Alfred's incredulous expression, Sam chose that moment to say, "We inherited it from my wife's parents. It was their old summer home. Her father is a Supreme Court judge, you know."

"Justice," Alfred corrected absently, still admiring the house.

"What?"

"They're called Justices."

"Oh."

Sam paused, glancing at Alfred, who was still staring at the house.

"Er… shall we go in?"

Alfred blinked for a moment, then turned his attention back to Sam. "Go in? Oh, yes, go in. Let's."

Sam gestured for Alfred to lead the way. Stepping past him, Alfred mounted the stairs to the large front porch (it went all the way around the house, so he couldn't decide if that ruined its status as a front porch or not) and knocked on the front door. Nobody answered, so he opened it and stepped inside.

And promptly stubbed his toe on something that had been sitting immediately in front of the entrance. Said something fell to the floor with a loud clatter, but Alfred ignored it in favor of clutching his foot in pain.

"Oh, my stars! Are you all right?"

Alfred registered the voice as female, and immediately stopped his muttered cursing. Looking up, he saw a young woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties, with carefully curled auburn hair and blue eyes that currently looked rather distressed. She bent down to right whatever it was he had tripped so unceremoniously over, her many layers of obviously expensive skirts rustling as she did so. The object turned out to be an umbrella stand with, oddly enough, a clawed foot, and its entire collection of various umbrellas and ladies' parasols.

"Sorry, ma'am, didn't see that there," he said, the pain in his toe now fading quickly.

"Is your foot well? Do you need a compress?" she asked, her voice sweet and concerned. He was about to respond, when her blue eyes flashed, going from concerned to furious in less than a second.

"JOHN MADISON CATRON JUNIOR!" she yelled shrilly, spinning to face the stairs. "GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" came the reply. A door opened above, and out came a rather scruffy-looking man who looked entirely out of place in the grand house. But he had the same slightly curly auburn hair and blue eyes as the screeching lady, so Alfred assumed him to be a relative of some sort.

"I said," she repeated, her voice quieter now, "get _down_ here."

"Awright, awright, I'm gettin'." He huffed down the stairs at a pace that contradicted his laid-back speech.

"You apologize for your irresponsibility this instant, John Madison Catron junior," the woman said, hands on her hips. Alfred, who had by now backed well out of the way of the pair, found Sam in a similar position.

"Does this happen… often?" he whispered. Sam nodded fervently in reply.

"That's my wife, Lucretia," he said, "and that's her brother." Alfred felt a definite sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Meanwhile, they were still going. "My irresponsibility? What've I done this time, stuck the cat in the stove?"

"We don't have a cat," the woman, Lucretia, retorted. "I mean the fact that you left mother's umbrella stand out here for someone to trip on, instead of beside her portrait like it should be."

Turning, the man seemed to notice Alfred for the first time, and brightened. Breaking away from his sister, he made his way to Alfred, and began pumping his arm in a vigorous handshake.

"Good to meet you, finally! You must be Jones, the man Sam was tellin' us is going to take us west! Marvelous! Simply fantastic!"

Alfred couldn't hold back a grin at the man's enthusiasm. "It's nice to meet you too! You must be Sam's brother-in-law! John, was it?"

"No, the name's George," he said. Leaning forward, he whispered (rather loudly), "These people are crazy, with all this 'John' business. I hate the name, but Lucy over there is always callin' me John anyway."

"Ah," Alfred said eloquently.

"Oh, and before Lucy kills me… sorry about the umbrella stand. But it's a pity you didn't break it… that thing's hideous."

Lucretia, who appeared to have the ears of a jackrabbit, started hollering something about "family heirlooms of great personal value" at George, but he ignored her with apparent ease.

"Useless European-made garbage," he said. "I only like home-grown American!"

Alfred decided that he definitely liked this George Catron.

_V~-~-~V_

They set out the following day amid much confusion.

Apparently, cousins of Lucretia's were supposed to come to move into the house, thus taking care of all the heirlooms that Lucretia hadn't already shoved into the wagon, but they didn't show up. The donkey was refusing to have anything strapped to its back, the springs under the wagon's driver's chair decided to stop springing, several of the cover ties had gone missing overnight, and Lucretia couldn't find her rose-petal pink hat for spring wear in any of the multitude of hatboxes she's piled in the wagon.

Eventually, the donkey was blindfolded and subdued into cooperating by Alfred and his way with animals, the springs were replaced by Sam with the help of a neighbor who had spares, the wagon ties were found in the claw-footed umbrella stand, and the rose-petal pink hat for spring wear had been uncovered from beneath her periwinkle blue hat for summer wear ("I don't know how it got there! It should have been in the pink-and-yellow spring wear hatboxes, not the blue-and-green summer ones!"). The cousins also appeared at the last minute, having been delayed after spending too long at lunch.

The trip was finally underway, and Alfred was already congratulating himself on his mental fortitude (though he privately found the morning's proceedings highly amusing).

Alfred also never bothered contesting Lucretia on the 15th century French bureau after witnessing her opinion on heirlooms. He was just grateful that there was still room for his trunk.

Since there was no room in the wagon itself for passengers with all of the belongings filling it to the brim (especially with the wagon's stability already questionable), it was necessary for the four to walk.

"It shan't be me," was all Lucretia had to say on the matter, but Sam (who was the only one who could reason with her), pointed out that the only place she could sit was the driver's seat, and she certainly couldn't drive. So Alfred walked first, leading the donkey beside the oxen, followed by a grumbling Lucretia, with George agreeing to pick up the rear of their tiny party while Sam drove.

And for the first time all day, the whole group was silent as they left Independence, Missouri behind.

_V~-~-~V_

Oxen were slow creatures by nature, and because they'd left so late, Alfred guessed they'd gone about seven miles by the time they stopped around 6 o'clock for supper.

Prepared for beans, dried beef, and maybe a bit of rice for supper, Alfred was astonished when Lucretia started boiling an entire kettle of their good drinking water and started making pasta. Complete with tomato sauce from a jar.

"Why on _earth_ are you making pasta?"

"Oh, I met this charming young Italian boy when I was younger, and he told me that all special occasions need pasta." She frowned slightly before amending, "Actually, he said that pasta made every occasion special, but I don't have enough ingredients to make it all the time. I told him so, and I do believe he nearly cried at that, but another boy, his brother most likely, dragged him away before he could say anything else."

"And you've decided to follow this advice," Alfred stated, watching the pasta bubble.

"It's very good advice," George interrupted. He already had a plate and fork ready, and was all but drooling at the sight of food. "If Lucy wants to make pasta, let her make it any time she wants."

"But it will go bad!" Alfred exclaimed. "You need food that lasts longer than a week! Please tell me you brought beans, or at least some jerky…."

Lucretia sniffed. "Why would I degrade myself by eating such foods? I'll eat whatever I please!"

"It's going to spoil," Alfred insisted, "and then you'll have _nothing _to eat, and that's not pleasing at all!"

"Alfred, calm down," Sam said, his steady voice interrupting. "We'll buy some supplies, whatever food you think we need, at the next store we come to, don't worry. In the meantime, can we just enjoy the food Lucretia has cooked for us?"

"Yeah, I'm starving," George said, though Alfred doubted he'd been listening at all by the look on his face.

"Stupid Italians," Alfred muttered, but accepted the pasta anyway, because no matter the idiocy of his traveling companions, he was hungry as always.

Thousands of miles away, a pair of twin brothers sneezed in unison.

_V~-~-~V_

After two days more of ridiculously nice food, they reached a trading post, where Alfred promptly traded the last of their fruit (soon to spoil anyway) for a large bag of pemmican, many cans of beans, bacon, and three pounds of rice.

Their fourth night on the trail, Alfred cooked, treating them all to the food they'd be eating every day for the next several months, cooked over a campfire he'd built in the by the wagon. Lucretia's mood turned sour afterward, and to appease her, Sam pulled out his most prized possession from beneath the wagon seat: his fiddle.

"You play?" Alfred asked, and was rewarded with Sam's calm smile.

"I learned from my uncle. A great man, my uncle."

George instantly perked up. There, Alfred noted, was a man who had eaten all of the beans without complaint. Looking excited, he asked, "Oh, play _Turkey in the Straw_, wontcha please, Sam?"

Sam, obliging, propped his fiddle into a playing position and began, the bow fairly leaping across the strings with grace surprising for the rather stocky man. George immediately started singing, his voice ringing out across the empty land.

"_As I was a-gwine down the road, with a tired team and a heavy load…_"

George's voice wasn't horrible, but it certainly wasn't chorus-quality. Alfred glanced at Lucretia, and was relieved to see that she was smiling.

"So," he said, afraid to ask after her health lest she start complaining again, "your father is John Catron?"

Lucretia turned to face him, her features flickering in the firelight. "Yes! Have you heard of him? Not many outside of Tennessee have!"

"… _turkey in the straw, turkey in the hay, roll 'em up and twist 'em up a high tuckahaw…"_

Alfred nodded. "He was made a Justice fairly recently, right?" Lucretia nodded vigorously.

"Yes, just three years ago! Our whole family was ever so pleased when Father told us. He asked all of us out to the family home in Tennessee just to break the news. He even hid it from _Mother_, and that's extremely difficult to do!" She paused for a moment. "How did you know?"

"Well, Sam told me your father was a Justice, and you called George, 'John Catron junior' the first time we met, so it was a fairly safe assumption."

Lucretia hm'd. "So, do you keep up with politics?"

"…_Went out to milk and I didn't know how, I milked the goat instead of the cow…"_

"Yes, I went to Harvard, so I've sort of checked up on them a couple times since." Alfred braced for the inevitable.

"You went to _Harvard?_" exclaimed Lucretia, aghast. "But you're so young!"

There it was. "I'm not as young as I look," Alfred replied, repeating his earlier response to Sam when told the same thing.

Lucretia had nothing to say to that, and went back to staring at the fire, while George kept singing.

"… _Met Mr. Catfish comin' downstream, says Mr. Catfish, 'What does you mean?'"_

"Do you think we'll make it?"

Startled, Alfred realized it was Lucretia who had spoken. She was biting her lower lip, obviously uncomfortable with voicing the question. She turned, fixing Alfred with a searching gaze.

"I mean," she elaborated, "so many die on this journey! The weather, sickness, Injuns… who knows how well we'll do."

Alfred suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him, followed by the urge to hug the young woman before him, no matter how irritating she'd been until then. But it was a sort protectiveness for all of the people who would make the same harsh journey as them, and all of the people he knew would die in the attempt.

"We'll make it," he said, conviction in every word. "I'll get us there. All of us. And you're going to live in a lovely cabin in the woods of some valley in Oregon that Sam will build, and George is going to go off and be a happy trapper… or whatever it is exactly that he wants to do, I'm not really sure. But you—we'll all be fine."

He cracked a sudden grin. "We're pioneers, after all. We get claims to the best of everything Oregon's got, because we're the first."

Lucretia gave him a hesitant smile in return. "Of course."

"… _twist 'em up a high tuckahaw, and twist 'em up a tune called Turkey in the Straw!_"

George, at last, was done, so Alfred interrupted.

"Can you play _Arkansas Traveler?_"

Sam smiled genially and nodded. Taking a deep breath, he went back to his fiddle, this time singing as well.

"_Once upon a time in Arkansas, an old man sat in his little cabin door, and fiddled at a tune that he liked to hear, a jolly old tune that he'd play by ear…"_

Alfred grinned broadly, leaning back against the wagon's wheel. He looked up at the stars, specks of light in the inky black sky that enveloped them. They always did look nicer from the country, he mused.

As he lost himself in the sky, the fiddle music gradually faded, lulling Alfred into the first peaceful sleep he'd had in a long time.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>Done again!<p>

First off, history:  
>Wagons going west were, as Alfred says, 11 ft long, 4 ft wide, and 2 ft deep, and the canvas cover went to about 5 ft above the wagon bed. They were pulled by oxen, and due to the luggage, people usually walked alongside the wagon the whole way.<br>Oxen were also very slow. The average day of travel began between 7 and 8 am, stopped for lunch, and ended at 5 pm for dinner, chores, and tutoring of any children on the journey. But due to the speed of travel, they usually covered only about 15 miles a day.  
>Meals were usually variations on beans, rice, bacon, jerky, and fresh beef if you were bringing livestock, dried if you weren't. No pasta was served.<br>John Catron was a real person, a Supreme Court justice born in Virginia, but he spent the later part of his life in Tennessee. He served as a Justice between 1837 and 1865, and after that held many political positions within Tennessee. I have no idea who his children were, if he had any, but there are records of a J. Madison Catron on the Oregon Trail. Catron the Justice wasn't all that important historically, but I chose him to be part of the story because he has the same birthday as I do (January 7th, thanks for asking).  
>The songs, <em>Turkey in the Straw<em> and _Arkansas Traveler_ are American folk songs popular in the early 1800s. Tunes of songs were at first borrowed from Europe, with they lyrics changed to suit the Americans, but around the 1800s Americans began to create their own.

Secondly, if you noticed the mention of the Italy brothers, good job. If you noticed the blatant Harry Potter reference, I am honored to know that one such as you reads my story. Harry Potter is my eternal fandom (perhaps another story is in order!).

Thahdly, question-and-answer time!  
><em>Was Sam Atkins a real person?<em> Yes, he was a real person who traveled on the Oregon Trail, but he was not historically important in any way.  
><em>Is Matthew still Alfred's sibling? <em>I never really thought of the two of them as true siblings, just Nations with similar initial circumstances, raised by the same person. If the being-raised-by-England was what made them brothers, Hong Kong and Australia are also their brothers, and I don't see that at all. But yes, they still have very similar appearances, and Matthew already feels closer to Alfred than he does to most people he considers normal. I hope that answers that question satisfactorily...  
><em>When will Alfred meet up with Matthew or Arthur again?<em> Sorry, can't tell you that! But he will see both of them again eventually!  
><em>Why did Matthew say he was going to meet Alfred again and then never follow through? He's not being a very good friend.<em> Basically, Matthew's busy with his own country, plus America because the American government doesn't have a proper personification. Also, his boss did a fairly good job convincing him that Alfred's nothing special, and Matthew has to keep the secret of Nations a secret. If he showed up and Alfred was all old, he'd be exposed right away. Hope that's good enough for you!

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! And as always, if you have the time, don't hesitate to comment or review!


	18. Western Omake

I lied again... this isn't a new chapter. It's a lovely thing known as an omake, and I'm really sorry for publishing two within such a short time span, but it can't be helped. My base of operations has relocated for this week to Colorado, and seeing as I'm terribly busy here, writing another chapter just wasn't going to happen. This omake was written around two weeks ago for the purpose of publishing now.

Also, this omake was inspired by a review from SamanthaMeloes, saying, and I quote, "Please tell me Cowboy America will happen. Oh my gosh," (but all in caps). I do not know if Cowboy America will happen, but it will most likely not because cowboy time overlaps with the Civil War (which will happen for sure). So to satisfy my sudden desire to write something about Cowboy America, here we are.

Also, this has nothing to do with the plot of this story.

Please enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>Alfred grinned like a maniac as he hopped off his horse, landing with a puff of dust in front of the town's main hitching post. The spurs on his high boots clinked as he moved to tie the horse up, the broad brim of his ten-gallon hat shielding his face from the glaringly bright sun.<p>

Just this morning, he'd prevented a bank robbery by incapacitating the would-be robber and stealing his gun before he could follow through with his nefarious plot. And he did it immediately after being told to put his hands up and back slowly toward the wall.

_Davis always said I couldn't follow orders,_ he thought, remembering his commanding officer from his days in the Revolution.

After chasing the would-be thief (who had hollered something along the lines of, "I'm part of Butch Cassidy's gang, you'll regret this!") out, he had to assure the bank manager that he wasn't after the money himself. Then he was thanked so many times by the bank staff and the present civilians that he had yet to stop smiling.

He absently fixed the saddle bags on his horse's back. She was a beautiful thing, a silvery-white mare with black spots. The man he'd bought her from had mentioned what breed she was, but Alfred hadn't really cared. In his endless naming creativity, he'd named her Nahnaiyeumoaodt (Nahnai for short), the Algonquin word for horse. _I'm developing Clark's naming skills_, he thought disparagingly, but even that couldn't put a damper on his good mood.

It was in this fit of ecstasy that he chose to visit a saloon nearby and reward himself with a good drink.

And it was partially due to this ecstasy (and partially due to the crappy beer he'd downed in three swallows) that he found himself peering over the battered edges of his card hand, thoroughly involved in a game of poker that was quickly going downhill.

The other men at the table all looked older, with scraggly partial-beards and hard looks of concentration in their eyes. They also all wore weapons, half-heartedly hidden beneath coat flaps or stowed in holsters. Alfred touched his own gun at his waist for assurance. Being unable to defend himself from armed strangers wasn't something he took chances with, because even if he could probably out-arm-wrestle all of them with both hands tied behind his back, he didn't fancy getting shot. That tended to hurt.

Sighing, he threw his cards down at the request of the man acting as dealer. From the smirks flitting their way among the faces of the men around him, Alfred already knew he'd lost. As he watched, the hands of cards were laid out, some better than others (but all better than his), until there was only one man left.

He was different from the other men. He had the same fondness for facial hair (a blond mustache covered his upper lip) and the same barely concealed weaponry (a pair of silver pistols at his waist), but he stood out to Alfred. He was definitely more composed, with not a single facial muscle moving for the duration of the game, and he held himself in a manner that was almost… gentlemanly.

And from what Alfred understood, gentlemen didn't lounge in saloons at five in the afternoon to gamble. Heck, the gentlemanly demographic of what was known as the Wild West (for good reason) could fit in his pinkie.

Since he already he'd lost with his abysmal luck at cards, the blond man became the center of Alfred's attention, and then quickly became the center of attention for everyone else at the table when he finally laid his cards down.

A straight flush. _Diamonds_, Alfred's brain noted, even before he completely registered that the "gentleman" had just won, like a strike out of the blue.

"Ah~," Alfred sighed, but he grinned at the men around the table anyway. "Looks like I've lost."

The man reached to the center of the table, intent on collecting his winnings, when one of the other card players leapt up from his seat and brought his hand down with a _thump_, effectively cutting the man off.

"You cheated!"

The accuser was a large man, with beady dark eyes and an equally dark beard. If the blond oozed, "gentleman," this man positively screamed, "shifty lumberjack."

But the blond merely fixed his accuser with the same impassive look he'd had on for the entirety of the card game.

"I didn't."

Incensed now, the burly man took a step towards the blond. "I know you done cheated! And that kid," here he pointed to Alfred, much to his shock, "helped you do it! There ain't no way anyone can be that bad at cards withou' a reason!"

"_Hey!_" Alfred exclaimed, ignoring the blond's attempt to cut him off. "If he says he didn't cheat, he didn't! And stop insulting me!"

The blond nodded, giving Alfred a cursory once-over with his blue eyes. "As he says, I did not cheat. Kindly stop accusing me." He glanced sideways at Alfred again, and almost as an afterthought, added, "And there's no way I'd work with anyone who's as atrocious a card player as that kid, whatever the circumstances."

Alfred didn't have a chance to answer that comment before the burly man shouted again, louder than before.

"You cheated, I know! You wouldn't-a won if you didn't! And a cheater like you ain't gettin' a damned _cent_ of my money!"

Suddenly, the blond's impassive eyes went cold as ice. In one fluid movement, he'd stood and drawn his gun.

_BANG!_

The entire saloon, which had been full of loud talking, laughing, and the sound of clinking glasses, fell eerily silent. All eyes focused on the blond, and more importantly, on the smoking gun in his left hand and the neatly bullet-shaped hole blown clean through the burly man's hat. After a long pause, in which no one dared breathe, much less move, the silence was snapped by the blond himself.

"I am _not_ a cheater. I won this game fairly, and you will accept your loss with grace." The second part sounded distinctly like a threat, and from the burly man's expression, he too understood the blond's meaning perfectly well.

"Now leave, or my gun might just slip and shoot something a little lower, and it will be a bit more valuable than your hat."

The burly man was already all but whimpering, but after the second threat, he scampered out of the saloon faster than a jackrabbit with a hot poker for a tail. The blond merely turned back to the table and resumed collecting his money, now with a healthy amount of space between himself and the saloon's other patrons.

Having nothing else to do, Alfred returned to the bar counter, and asked for a cup of water. He didn't think he could stomach another beer like the one he'd had earlier, so this seemed like a safe bet. It arrived shortly after in a cup barely larger than a shot glass, but Alfred accepted it gratefully. The normal conversation slowly made its way back, albeit a bit more subdued than before, but at least nearing normal volume.

He sat at his barstool, watching errant drops make their way down his glass's side when he sensed the person to his right suddenly stand and leave. He was replaced moments later by none other than the gentlemanly blond (though Alfred was considering revising his choice of adjectives).

Watching out of the corner of his eye, Alfred listened to the man order some whiskey, which was delivered in record time. The man knocked it back with a single swallow, then spoke without turning.

"You really are a damn poor card player."

Alfred realized the blond was talking to him, and turned to face the other man. "Hey, I resent that!"

The man said nothing for a moment, simply staring at his whiskey. "That was stupid, you know."

"What was?" Alfred asked, genuinely confused. Had he changed topics or not?

"Trying to stand up to that man." Ah. No need to ask who.

"He would have tied you in knots and kicked you to next Tuesday if it had gone to a real fight!" Alfred exclaimed.

"I did not ask for help."

"So what? I help people I see in trouble!"

The blond looked skeptical. "Those thoughts are going to get you killed," he deadpanned. "As you can see, I was perfectly capable of handling idiots like him."

"Well… what if he had friends?"

"People like him don't have friends." The man's face remained perfectly impassive, so the attempt at a joke took a moment to register with Alfred. He felt his mouth open, feeling like a fish out of water as his eyes widened.

"Were you really cheating?" he finally blurted.

"Nope."

"Then how did you win?"

"I always win," the blond said simply. Alfred nodded, feigning comprehension, and took a sip of his water. Immediately, he spat it out again. _Dusty and lukewarm at best_, he thought. _Typical._

"Look, kid, how about I get you a real drink?" the blond said, eyeing the water distrustfully. Before Alfred could reply, another whiskey was set before him by the bartender (in addition to the third put before the blond), who clearly was trying to avoid their part of the table as much as possible.

The man was still watching, so Alfred took a cautious sip, nearly spitting it all out as the alcohol burned his throat, but he liked his hat _without _holes. The blond laughed, still picking up on Alfred's discomfort.

"What's your name?"

"Alfred Jones," he replied. "Yours?"

"Harry Longabaugh."

If Alfred hadn't already put his drink far away, he would surely have choked on it. "_Harry Longabaugh? _No joke?"

The man narrowed his eyes. "Is there something funny?" Immediately, Alfred backtracked, holding his hands out in a (hopefully) placating gesture.

"No, no, just uncommon! You don't run into a Longabaugh in every saloon, you know." The man seemed satisfied with that, and Alfred silently congratulated himself on his quick save.

"Don't I know it," the man, Harry, muttered in reply. "But I don't go by that often. People call me—"

"Sundance!"

Peering around Harry to see who had spoken, Alfred saw a stocky man, around six feet tall, barge through the swinging saloon doors. His close-cropped blond hair just barely peeked out from beneath his hat, and he didn't even bother to conceal his weapons. The whole saloon went deathly quiet again as he scanned the crowd, his blue eyes lighting up when he spotted who he was looking for.

Much to Alfred's surprise, that person happened to be Harry.

"Sundance, get out here! The boys're all waitin' on you and that damned whiskey of yours!"

"Comin', Butch," was all Harry said as he stood, draining the last of his fourth shot. Tipping his hat to Alfred, he flashed a quick grin. "I'll be seeing you around, Jones." He walked off to join the other man without looking back.

"Who's the kid?" the other man asked, casting a glance at Alfred.

"Nobody important. Just some damn awful poker player."

The pair exited, still chatting amiably with one another. The instant the saloon doors swung shut behind them, talk began again in full force within the walls of the bar.

"By golly," a lone man down the bar said, staring at Alfred with something akin to awe. "That was Butch Cassidy, and the Sundance Kid!"

Alfred finished the last of the whiskey (it was only polite, after all), before he too stood and left. As he untied Nahnai, he watched the cloud of dust kicked up by an obviously large group of horses recede into the distance.

_Butch Cassidy's gang, huh_, he thought, recalling the bank robber from earlier. He grinned, the maniacal edge back. _As long as they've got Harry, they're going places, someday._

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>Western Omake complete!<p>

History first:  
>This happens a a few decades after the current time period of this story. In 1896, Butch Cassidy (whose real name was Robert LeRoy Parker), a native of Utah territory, formed the Wild Bunch, a group that was notorious for their robberies of banks and trains. He recruited the Sundance Kid (Harry Alonzo Longabaugh), a native of Pennsylvania, to his gang in the same year. They were very successful in their criminal activities until they were so infamous that the Pinkerton Detective Agency was hired to hunt them down. The pair fled to Bolivia with Longabaugh's girlfriend (Etta Place), and continued robbing until they were allegedly killed in a shootout in 1908. I wrote about them after recently watching the movie, <em>Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid<em>, which is rather good.  
>Alfred's horse's name, Nahnaiyeumoaodt, literally means something along the lines of, "animal who carries," and is the closest thing that I could find in Algonquin to horse.<p>

If you remember the Expedition chapters, he was bad at cards then, and hasn't improved. He may be a Nation, but he can't be good at everything. :P

I'll answer the past/present/future questions next (real) chapter, so don't forget to ask away if you wonder anything about authorial choices, plot, or any of the many OC's that are involved in this story from any of the chapters!

Thanks for reading (and sorry it's not a chapter), and please don't hesitate to comment or review if you've got the time!


	19. Oregon Bound: Part II

Wow, it's been a long time! Life really got in the way of this chapter, but now I'm back!

Thank you very much to Night's Flower, petaltailify97, Oniongrass, Hinagiku Flower, Ember Hinote, , Jillo96, and the two guests for reviewing the last chapter, and to SamanthaMeloes, Lapis Lazuli Ichigo, and again to Ember Hinote, Jillo96, petaltailify97, and Oniongrass for reviewing the omake!  
>Thanks as well to AllyMCainey, Natsuyuki, Verachime, HarryPotterForLife7, worldherpderp, SherryPin, Fabled Phoenix, AzamiBlossom, and again to Lapis Lazuli Ichigo for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Sorry for making you all wait so long, but here it is!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>Alfred craned is neck up to see the tip of the rock formation before him, the summer heat coming in waves off the dusty ground. Turning to his equally dusty party, he gestured with weary grandeur to the pillar of stone behind him.<p>

"Chimney Rock, folks!"

Lucretia barely glanced up from the handkerchief she was using to fan her face. "Lovely, just lovely…"

George did glance up from his position leaning against the back of the wagon, but quickly put his head back down between his arms, and stared at the ground instead. "Another rock… I don't ever wanna see another rock again…"

Sam was the only one who looked excited at all. It was probably due to the fact that he'd been the one driving that morning, and was thus the least tired.

"Well, isn't that something! You've gotten us quite far, son!"

"Not really," Alfred replied. "We're only twelve miles from Courthouse Rock, and that was right near the Platte… I mean, the flat land may be over, but from here on it's uphill all the way to the mountains."

"Do you mean to say we'll be going even _slower?_"

Alfred looked toward Lucretia, who had ceased her fanning to stare at him incredulously. "Well, not for a bit yet, but once we hit the foothills- those are still a ways away, you know- it'll be harder for the oxen to walk, and the wagon's awful heavy still—"

Lucretia almost sank to the ground in despair, but a doubtful glance at its questionable cleanliness versus her skirts convinced her otherwise, and she instead settled for leaning on the wheel. "My stars…"

"On the bright side," George muttered, "we've only another seventy thousand and twenty-six miles left to go!"

"Actually, only around two thousand and five hundred," Alfred put in helpfully. George merely groaned.

"But that mean's we've eight hundred miles behind us!" Sam said cheerfully. "And that should definitely make you feel something!"

"Like foot pain," George said.

"And absolutely filthy." Lucretia made a vain attempt to brush herself off.

"Well, I'm just hungry," Alfred interjected, "so why don't we stop early and have a big supper?"

"I still fail to see why we must eat this… awful excuse for food," Lucretia said as Sam began unpacking, a line that she repeated every evening as she cooked yet another meal of beans and rice. At first, Alfred had responded, listing all of the reasons why this (not pasta) was eaten at all times, but he'd long since given up bothering.

"We also need to get rid of a few things," Alfred said. "The oxen aren't looking too good as it is, and all that extra weight's not helping."

"Get rid of things?" Lucretia exclaimed. "What did we buy oxen for if they can't even carry our belongings properly?"

"You're the one who wanted that dresser, and your ten-thousand hatboxes," George quipped.

"It's a _French bureau,"_ Lucretia retorted with an imperious sniff, "not a dresser, and those are valuable. I wasn't about to leave _my things_ behind for those cousins of ours. I do not trust them to treat them with proper care."

"Regardless, Alfred has a point," Sam put in. "There's no way we'll make it with all this extra weight. We'll have to get rid of it sometime, so why not now?"

"Because we will not be getting rid of them at all," Lucretia said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, we will," George said, and he began rifling through the contents of the wagon, tossing boxes out at random, ignoring Lucretia's cries of, "Not _that!_", "Watch what you're throwing!", and "My belongings will not be tossed with such flippancy!"

But soon enough, George had evaded Lucretia's flailing attempts to stop him for long enough to create a pile of boxes that he deemed unnecessary. The bureau was unable to be removed without dismantling the wagon cover, so it remained (despite Alfred and Sam's agreement that it presented the easiest way to lose some weight).

All of this disposing put Lucretia in a foul mood, which gradually infected her brother. Even Sam's good cheer failed to lift the general pessimism of the family. Supper was a subdued affair, and Alfred wondered for the thousandth time what had possessed these people to go west in the first place.

_V~-~-~V_

The first major snag in Alfred's plan to safely transport the Atkinses (plus George) westward was when the trail disappeared.

He and Sam had been expecting that it would do so for a while (but hadn't mentioned it to Lucretia, lest she throw a fit); after all, it wasn't a major route of travel, and they were among the very first wagons to make the journey. It was practically their job to create the trail themselves for future pioneers. But all in all, the lack of a clear path forward was disconcerting.

Alfred looked around, studying his location in a manner that some would call absent-minded gazing, but he called critical assessment. He wasn't the Mother of the People's son for nothing.

His critical assessment concluded that it was very flat, and had been very flat for many miles now. A rock, large and recognizable as a landmark, jutted up from the flatness of the plains, totally devoid of foliage and thus easily distinguished from the tall grasses that grew everywhere else, as far as the eye could see.

He also concluded that they were in the middle of nowhere. They hadn't seen people since their last stop at a trading post, and that had been two weeks ago.

Another thing he noted was that the sun really was quite bright in the middle of nowhere. It was making it rather hard to see much, especially when compounded with the fact that it made the ground all wavy-looking.

"Hey, George."

"What?"

"Why does the sun make the ground look like it's rippling?"

"I dunno, ask Sam. He's the smart one."

"Say, Sam—"

"I have no idea why, Alfred. Now will you please tell us which direction we need to go?"

"Oh. Right."

"Go right?"

"Quiet, George. I'm trying to think."

In truth, Alfred had no idea which direction they were supposed to be going. After all, Lewis and Clark's expedition had been to find the mouth of the Missouri and "establish diplomatic relations," not get all the way to the blasted _far_ Oregon territory specifically (even if it hadn't been called such at the time). Plus, that was thirty years ago, and even his memory wasn't perfect.

Speaking of the Lewis and Clark expedition, there had been a fork there, too, in the river. If Alfred remembered correctly, a majority of the expedition had wanted to go north, but in the end, they'd followed the expedition leaders.

"South," he said decisively, masking his total lack of direction with an air of confidence. "We're going south."

Sam gave him his usual passive smile, and gripped the oxen's reins firmly, steering them left without protest. Lucretia grumbled as usual, but she always was put out when they had to walk anywhere. George clearly hadn't been paying attention, and looked at his brother in bewilderment.

"I thought we were going right!"

_V~-~-~V_

"John, what did you do with my sassafras-colored hat for summer wear?"

Alfred glanced at George, who wasn't responding, merely continuing to poke some sticks around as he attempted for the fifty-eighth time to start a fire on his own.

Lucretia, meanwhile, was divesting the wagon of everything they'd packed in it in order to find a new hat. Her current choice, which she described as her pastel-peach hat for spring wear, had gradually become more brown than pastel-peach with the trail dust ingrained so thickly into its cloth.

Sticking her head out of the back of the wagon, Lucretia fixed George's back with her iciest stare. "_John._ My _hat_. _What did you do with it?_"

"Hey, Al. Wanna give a man some help here?"

Alfred chanced a glance at Lucretia. Still icy.

"Alfred! Do you wanna eat, or not?"

It was a calculated risk, but food was definitely the winner. Feigning a sigh of exasperation, he made his way towards George and his pile of sticks. "Haven't I explained fifty-seven times how do light a fire?"

"Who's counting?"

"I am, actually."

"Ah."

"_JOHN MADISON CATRON JUNIOR!"_

George still focused on his sticks, but glanced nervously over his shoulder at Lucretia before looking at Alfred, who began his instruction as he had the previous fifty-seven times.

"Look, you need two stones, how many times have I told you that? And find me some forked sticks, if you actually intend to roast anything… but you at least managed to arrange them properly this time. I guess you can be trained, after all."

George punched him lightly and made to get up, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Turning slowly, he looked down into the furious face of his sister.

"I believe," she said, frost coating her words, "I asked you what you did to my sassafras-colored hat for summer wear, John Madison Catron junior, and I expect an answer."

George glanced sideways at Alfred, clearly intending to push his luck. Alfred shrugged at him and stepped back to the relative safety of the other side of their camp, under the pretense of helping Sam with the oxen. There was no way he was getting into another fight with Lucretia. She could be a force of nature when her brother was involved.

Another glance, now pleading. Alfred carefully engaged in a meaningless conversation with Sam.

"So, how are Flower and Egg?" he asked, speaking of the pair of oxen. Lucretia had actually named them Daisy and Sunnyside, but George had taken creative liberties.

"As well as can be expected. They're as tired as us, I suppose," Sam answered evenly, but joined Alfred in not-watching Lucretia and George, who was digging himself into a deeper hole as they spoke.

"Who're you talkin' to, Lucy? I dunno any John's. D'you know any John's, Al?"

"I am speaking to _you_, John, not Alfred." This was punctuated by a very clear _say-a-word-and-I-will-beat-you-senseless-with-my-hatbox _look in Alfred's direction before she turned back to George. "And I _expect_ an answer. _Immediately._"

"Are you sure you looked hard enough? Maybe it's in a different colored box, like the

Out of options, George glanced at the ground, then at the wagon, then at the sky before sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. "I… er…"

"_John…_"

"Are you sure you looked hard enough? Maybe it's under a different hat, like that hideou— er, stunningly gorgeous pink hat for summer was, back in Independence…"

"That was my rose-petal pink hat for spring wear, and don't avoid the question!"

"I jus' _really_, _really_ think you should look again, to see if you stuffed it in the dresser, or under the spring box—"

"_JOHN!"_

"Awright! I dumped it off back at that big rock, with all that other stuff!"

"You _what?!_"

"Dumped it! Disposed of it! Threw it out! Removed it from our possession!" George yelled, in an unusual fit of eloquence.

Sam finally intervened to try to calm his wife, who looked like she was about to brain George with the skillet she was wielding in a menacing fashion. "Put that down, that's for cooking dinner, Lucretia, dear… and it's all right, you've got plenty of other hats." Lucretia's expression made an abrupt change from a harbinger-of-doom look to distraught, and the skillet fell limply to her side.

"But I match them specifically with my outfits and jewelry! How am I supposed to wear my lily-green dress without my sassafras hat?"

"We'll get you another in Oregon, don't you worry..." Sam continued to soothe her, and George used the time to make a strategic retreat to Alfred's space of relative safety.

"How he can stand bein' married to that woman, I dunno," he muttered.

"I just wonder how long it'll take for her to realize there aren't any hat stores in Oregon territory," Alfred replied, and got a snicker out of George in return. "And aren't you her brother? How'd _you_ manage?"

George scowled. "I was doin' just fine on my own, an' then she's gotta go an' complain to our father that I'm not makin' a decent man of myself. He an' mother got together to force me back to living in Missouri with Lucy, on account of her needin' a man in the house. Then she up an' got married to Sam, good guy, him, but they made me stay anyway."

Alfred nodded, unsure of what to say to that. "You know, if you get back to cooking, maybe you can put that frying pan to use before Lucretia gets any more ideas."

He needed no further convincing. In a flash, George had grabbed some of the meat they'd been planning on saving, and threw it into the pan he'd snatched directly from Lucretia's hand.

"John!"

"Sorry, Luce," George replied, looking entirely unapologetic. "But can't you see I'm cookin' here?"

_V~-~-~V_

The land had reached a new kind of unfamiliar for Alfred. Not just a, oh-I-haven't-been-here-before, isn't-it-lovely, kind of unfamiliar, but a very similar kind of unfamiliar to the one developed when one was lost.

But Alfred certainly wasn't lost, and pressed on, attempting to ignore his growing sense of cluelessness in the hope that they'd soon reach a landmark, or trading post of some form. He was _pretty _sure they had to keep going south until they hit Fort William, but he was definitely asking for directions at the next opportunity.

It was Lucretia who first voiced the fear growing in all members of their little party. Sitting down for dinner one night, she asked, in a voice unusually tentative, "Are we lost?"

Sam immediately tried to reassure his wife. "Of course not, we'll get back on track soon enough—"

"We're lost."

Alfred glared at George, who met his gaze without remorse. "We haven't seen any sign of the trail, other wagons, or tradin' posts since going left at that big rock. I _told_ you lot we should've gone right..."

Sam turned to Alfred. "Is that true, Alfred?

Alfred glanced around, hoping for... something. He didn't know quite what, but it would fall from the sky and solve his problems. Maybe like a magical green flying rabbit.

"Alfred?"

"Er... I wouldn't say that we're _lost_, per se..."

"Then what are we?" Lucretia snapped. "Merely temporarily missing?"

Suddenly, George spoke again. "Is it jus' me, or is that stuff over that-a-way smoke?"

Alfred turned, following George's pointing finger to something in the sky. He shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to make it out through the heat. It was gray, and floating, yet definitely not a cloud.

And it was certainly better than wandering aimlessly. "It _is_ smoke," Alfred said, "and we're going to find what's making it!"

"We most certainly are _not!"_

Alfred turned around. Lucretia had her hands on her hips, a pose that was now intimately familiar to all of them, and was glaring from beneath the rim of her hat.

"Why not?" George asked. "They migh' help us with supplies, or somethin'."

"What if they're _Injuns?_" Lucretia asked. "They'll attack us, and steal all of our things, and probably leave us for dead!"

"They wouldn't do that," Alfred said.

"And what makes you so sure? You've got us in this mess in the first place because you were sure that we had to go south!"

"And I'll get us out," he retorted. "A good man always solves problems. And I'll definitely get the People to help us out."

Lucretia looked incredulous. "Get those people to _help _us? They'd never offer help! We should be running in the opposite direction, not asking them for _help!_"

"What if they're not Injuns?" Sam asked. "It could just be a brush fire, or maybe we're not off track after all and it's another wagon."

"Who cares?" George said. "If they've got a fire, maybe they've got food!"

With everyone more or less decided, the group made its way towards the smoke, but it turned out to be farther than expected, so they camped out for the night.

It was early afternoon the following day when the smoke reappeared, and it had moved.

Any doubt in Alfred's mind that it was natives making that smoke was erased. Wagons, as they'd seen (or not seen), weren't common. Guessing they were somewhere north of Mexico at this point, Alfred attempted to remember which of his siblings Nek had said lived here. He came up empty.

But with Sam vouching for him, Alfred led the group on. And sure enough, in the distance over the flat plain, a sparse encampment could be seen. Horses were standing off to one side, away from the place the smoke was coming from. A few figures could be seen gathered around the fire, sitting or crouching, and most certainly not white pioneers.

"Golly," George whispered. "Real Injuns."

"You want to be a trapper, don't you? Get used to them," Alfred snapped, not in any mood to be nice.

It was a scouting party, by Alfred's guess, though from which tribe he couldn't tell. He didn't know many, aside from the northeast ones, besides the ones Nek had told him about in her stories. The Otoe and the Missouri briefly crossed his mind, but they were already out of their territory.

Suddenly, he recalled the newspaper article he'd been reading just before agreeing to lead this expedition in the first place, about the five tribes that had been sent west by order of his government. But if it was any of them, their wagon party was _really _off track.

_Regardless_, he told himself, _they should be able to point us in the right direction, whoever they are._

Lucretia immediately volunteered to stay put with the wagon and her heirlooms. Sam volunteered to join her, purely for her protection, of course. George was all but shoved after Alfred, because according to Lucretia, "Alfred is too valuable to lose. Be a dear and make yourself useful as his expendable back-up."

George bemoaned his fate as Alfred led the two of them across the prairie towards the small scouting party. The scouts clearly noticed them early, and stood from the circle around their lunchtime fire. Three of the five or so began walking towards Alfred and George, clearly with the intention of heading them off. George was slowly inching behind Alfred, peering over his shoulder.

Alfred stopped first, holding his hands up, feeling George bump into him and then quickly mimic his movement. The three men continued another few feet and stopped as well, both parties studying the other.

Of the three men, one was older, around his late thirties by Alfred's best guess, and he stood beside another, shorter man a bit younger than he. The youngest stood in front, somehow oddly familiar. His black hair was tied up in a ponytail, feathers adorning his hair, and his deep brown eyes meet Alfred's with the air of a challenge.

He said something Alfred couldn't understand. "I think they're angry," George whispered, hiding further behind Alfred. All three of the men's eyes snapped toward his movement, and the hand of one of the back men went to hilt of the battle axe at his waist.

"Stay still!" Alfred hissed. Wishing he remembered more of his signs, he quickly made the hand motion for _Peace._

The eyes of the young man in front widened just slightly in surprise. _Who are you?_ Alfred quickly continued, hoping he remembered correctly.

The young man signed back, something unfamiliar to Alfred, who just shrugged his confusion. The man conferred briefly with the two behind him, speaking rapidly in whatever language they were using. Finally, he turned and said, "Tsalagi."

_That_ was definitely familiar. He dimly remembered Nek telling him something, long ago, when a visitor had come, a visitor who spoke the language he and Nek shared, and another. _"This is Mohe," _she had said, _"He comes from a village far away, in the south. His people are the Tsalagi, and you can call him your big brother."_

There had been a young man there, with deep brown eyes and black hair tied up on his head. Alfred remembered his smile, all white teeth and crinkling eyes. So very much like Nek, and so very much like himself.

_Tsalagi_. Cherokee.

"Nihshans?" Alfred asked, reverting to the Algonquin he still knew intimately, even after years of disuse. _Big brother?_

The young man showed no change in expression, and Alfred felt rather foolish. Of course this man couldn't be Mohe; he probably was another who just looked like him. _Would Mohe even still be alive? Even if he was like me, his people were forced out of their home; could he have gone with them?_

But as the other's dark brown eyes studied his face, Alfred finally saw a flicker of recognition. The young man stepped forward, ignoring the hissed words of his comrades, closing the remaining distance between himself and Alfred.

George cowered, muttering incomprehensibly, something about angry Injuns and being bald, but Alfred couldn't have cared less as the young man reached up, and lightly tapped that one strand of blond hair that would never lie flat.

"Mukki?"

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So, that's that. A wee cliffhanger, but nothing too major.<p>

Historical information time:  
>Chimney Rock and Courthouse Rock had a tandem thing going as the first major landmarklandmarks pioneers saw while traveling the Oregon Trail. They indicated the end of the prairies, and the beginning of the more rugged trek to the Rocky Mountain foothills. Chimney Rock was supposedly visible from forty miles away, due to the fact that it had the, "appearance of a haystack with a pole running far above its top," according to General Joel Palmer, who led a surveying party to the area in 1845. British explorer Sir Richard Burton wrote that Courthouse Rock, eventually named after the courthouse in St Louis, "resembled anything more than a court house."  
>Fort William was established in 1834 and later renamed Fort Laramie, in honor of Jacques La Ramie (a local French fur trader) when it was purchased by the US Army in 1849. It is northwest from Chimney Rock, hence why Alfred's lost.<br>Pioneers did dump things along the trail whenever they had difficulty navigating the land due to the weight of their wagon or to spare their oxen. These articles were called, "leeverites," basically short for, "leave 'er right there." An enterprising group of Mormons from Utah actually made a business later on out of scavenging, fixing, and selling various articles left behind by pioneers on the trail.  
>Many pioneers' greatest fear wasn't the difficulty of the trail itself, but the natives they might encounter. However, there were very few total attacks on Oregon Trail emigrants, especially when considering the amount of travelers who used the trail, so these fears were mostly unfounded.<br>They're in Oklahoma right now, where the Cherokee tribe was forcibly sent by the US government. There will be more on the Trail of Tears next chapter. _Tsalagi_, if you didn't get that, is the Cherokee word for Cherokee, and _nihshans_ (pronounced nih-SHAUNS) is the Algonquin word for older brother.

As for questions from reviewers...  
><em>What season did Alfred leave to the West? <em>Most pioneers left in the springtime in hopes that they would avoid most of the severe weather. This became imperative when it came to crossing the Rockies and the Cascades, as arriving too close to winter would leave you snowed in.  
><em>How long would it take to get to Oregon for them?<em> The average time changes based on accidents, weather, and other such variables, but on average it took 4 and 1/2 to 5 months to reach Oregon. Specifically in 1840, the average group took 170 days total.

I had two references to canon pets from Hetalia in this chapter. Let me know if you caught them!

... And that's about it. As usual, if you've a question or comment, please don't hesitate to leave a review! See you next chapter!


	20. Oregon Bound: Part III

Wow, it's been a while! I would apologize, but you probably wouldn't care.  
>Sorry.<p>

Thanks to Oniongrass, Hinagiku Flower, owlheadathena1, Ailesh Igirsu, and AquariusOtter for reviewing the last chapter!  
>Thanks as well to kittenseverywhere, BelayaRus25, GoldenxXxKitsune, Microraptor Glider, Anake14, Nikalian88, QuantumMelody, KaiDreavus213, HannokiKaen, Bommanator21, OCcreator, insanelaughtler, shadowstar92, EnergyEmber, HarukaHitoriki, Twix03, and again to owlheadathena1, Ailesh Igirsu for your many favorites and alerts!<p>

Do enjoy the third installment of Alfred's journey west!

* * *

><p>Alfred was sure that someday, he would look back and laugh at the expression he'd seen on George's face when Mohe released him from a particularly forceful hug. He probably would have laughed then, had the two other Cherokees not been looking the same.<p>

Laughing at George was all well and good, but laughing at his brother's friends would have been stupid.

So for now, he just stood, about an arm's length away from an older brother he barely remembered, grinning like a complete loon, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Mohe had a similar expression, though more subdued, but his brown eyes were all but glowing with happiness where there had once been open hostility.

"Uh… Al?"

George broke the silence, and snapped Alfred out of his daze. "What?" Alfred replied, not bothering to turn away.

"Who's that?"

"My brother."

"Your _what?!_"

By this point, Sam and Lucretia had made their way over. It was Lucretia who had shrieked the last remark. Alfred finally turned away from Mohe to face the astonished faces of his wagon party.

"Do you mean to tell us you're some sort of half-breed, Alfred Jones?" Lucretia demanded.

"Er… no. Mohe's more of an… adopted brother, of sorts. Mind you, I've only met him once before, a long time ago, but he remembered me anyway!"

From the sound of the rapid-fire Cherokee being spoken behind him, Alfred guessed that Mohe was doing some explaining as well. When Alfred turned to face him again, the other two Cherokees were staring at him with no small amount of respect.

"I tell them you are also son of Sitala," Mohe said, switching to slightly broken Algonquin. Alfred remembered Sacagawea calling Nek that. Mohe's gaze shifted to the three people behind him. "Who are Mukki's friends?"

"Can you understand them?" Lucretia interrupted, but Alfred ignored her.

"I am leading them west," Alfred replied to Mohe, reverting to Algonquin himself, "but we got lost." He found himself regretting that Nek hadn't taught him any other languages of the People. That really would've been useful. He pointed to each member of his party in turn. "This is Sam, Lucretia, and George." Mohe repeated the unfamiliar names, making them sound almost musical with his heavy accent.

"Hey, Al, you're tellin' 'em we're best pals, right?" George whispered. "I don' wanna be bald."

"You're not going to be bald," Alfred replied, but in all truthfulness, he wasn't sure that the other Cherokee wouldn't be hostile. Mohe could certainly vouch for him, and if their reaction to him was anything like Sacagawea's had been, he was almost certain that he would be fine.

But his traveling companions were the wealthy white foreigners living on native land and completely clueless to it, the epitome of all the natives despised about Americans. They represented everything that had caused the Cherokee people to be forced from their home, and judging by Mohe's haggard face and beaten posture, it hadn't been an easy journey.

As Alfred arrived at the conclusion that the rest of his wagon party wouldn't be safe with the Cherokee, Mohe seemed to be thinking the same thing, his brown eyes warily appraising them. His two companions were acting similarly, but hostility was open on their faces.

"I think…" Mohe began, speaking slowly, hesitation in his voice, "it would be best if we set you on course, and went our separate ways."

Alfred nodded, both relieved and stung at the same time. Cherokees were known for their hospitality among the People, but it was only among those they knew were trustworthy. And white foreigners as a whole had certainly proved themselves anything but. Yet it still hurt that someone he considered a sibling would reject him so flatly.

Alfred's mind flew to Nek. What would she think of him, now that his people (because no matter their atrocities, he was still an American) had hurt hers so? And he'd been incapable of stopping it.

_Maybe Mohe knows where she is,_ Alfred thought, suddenly filled with an almost dangerous hope. He could apologize, try to right the wrongs of his people, if he could just _see her_ again—

"We can't be here, associating with these… people!" Lucretia suddenly exclaimed. "They're savages, and George is right, we'll all wind up scalped and dead—"

Jerked back to the present, Alfred's head snapped around, and he focused on the woman who was wearing down his last nerves. "Don't you _dare_ insult my family, Lucretia," he growled, feeling angrier than he'd been in a long time. "They have every _right_ to turn us away after what our government did to them, but Mohe's going to help us, because _he's my brother." _Lucretia stared at him, eyes wide, shocked into silence. "But I from the way you treat yours, I suppose you can't understand that," Alfred finished bitterly.

Sam and George were staring now too. Alfred ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration he'd picked up long ago from Jefferson. Or had it been from Franklin? He couldn't remember anymore, his thoughts a confused mess. He turned back to Mohe, who was staring at him, clearly not understanding what was being said, though the angry undercurrent was hard to miss.

"They'll accept your hospitality," he said wearily, "and thank you for offering."

Mohe blinked, comprehension dawning on his face. He smiled quickly, grimly, at Alfred, before nodding formally to the people accompanying him and gesturing for them to follow.

_V~-~-~V_

Mohe's companions were understandably wary of the Atkinses and George, yet they had a respect for Alfred that bordered on awe, which made him wonder just how far Nek's influence went.

Mohe himself was nothing but cordial, but his eyes betrayed a similar wariness towards the members of Alfred's party. At Alfred's insistence, Lucretia brought out some of their beans and rice, which he cooked alongside the corn and squash offered by the Cherokee.

After eating in a silence that was indicative of the tension between the two groups, the two Cherokee men went about their usual chores on one side of the campfire, while George, Sam, and Lucretia huddled by the wagon on the opposite side. Alfred and Mohe sat together, between them, talking (ironically enough) in a language neither of the other parties could understand.

From Mohe, Alfred learned that the older Cherokee was called Onaconah, and the one who was speaking constantly in hushed tones as they worked was Gawonii. He learned that this year was a bad year for crops, that Mohe's arrival in Oklahoma had been punctuated by a minor dust storm, and that he'd met with four of their siblings that Alfred had never seen before they all left, one by one. Mohe had been the last.

Alfred insisted that Mohe tell him everything, because even though Nek had told him he was to remember for his people, he would remember this for Mohe too, because he knew what had happened when other tribes had been forcefully removed from their homelands.

So Mohe told him a story far darker than Alfred had imagined, his face flickering in the fire as the empty plains turned to evening around them.

It started when the Americans had discovered gold in the state of Georgia, near to where Mohe's people had lived. Originally, Alfred's government had decided that the Cherokee were their own nation, and thus couldn't have laws imposed upon them (he remembered that, as it had happened while Jefferson was in charge). That decision soon changed, and Mohe's tone turned quiet as he told of their forced relocation.

Their siblings had relented earlier, and had been spared, if only somewhat. The soldiers, he said, came and forced his people together in camps, then burned their homes and stole all their belongings. There was inadequate food, inadequate warmth, and no medical care for those succumbing to foreign diseases. He didn't need to say what had happened to those who couldn't bear the conditions.

Then they were sent to walk, with next to nothing other than the clothes they wore, forbidden from going near any white settlements. They were sick, starving, and even the soldiers following them weren't much better off.

False treaties were signed, and anyone protesting was killed. "We've settled down, now," Mohe said, "and we hope our numbers will rise again. We are a strong people," though Alfred wished that he didn't have to be _that_ strong. No one should.

_Nu na da ul tsun yi,_ Mohe called it, the Place Where They Cried.

And he had the scars to show for it.

_V~-~-~V_

Just as he'd promised, Mohe and the other two Cherokee scouts guided Alfred and his small party westward again.

"We've been going _south_ this whole time?!" Lucretia had exclaimed incredulously. "Weren't we only supposed to for a brief time, before turning west?" Alfred had sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and repeatedly tried to assure her that he had indeed known where he was going (he just hadn't found it yet), and they'd just gotten a bit turned around.

"She's wondering how we got lost," he explained to a confused Mohe, who had frowned and said, almost fondly,

"I wonder as well how you are lost, when you can clearly follow the direction from which the sun rises and go straight west, once you realize that south is the wrong direction."

Alfred pouted, and complained to George that nobody trusted him. George had thumped him companionably on the back. "Don't let it get to ya, Al. Nobody trusts me neither."

For some reason, Alfred did not find that reassuring.

Lucretia also refused to have anything to do with Mohe or his companions, instead staying as far away from them as possible. Sam was amiable enough, but generally stood by Lucretia at her insistence.

George, on the other hand, had made it his mission to communicate successfully with any of the three Cherokee. Onaconah and Gawonii were wary of him, but eventually George talked to them so much that they finally started to respond. In Alfred's opinion, it was more of a resigned acquiescence to make him shut up, but Mohe assured him that the two were being genuinely hospitable. "In true Cherokee way," he said proudly.

To Alfred, it seemed like no time at all before they could see the rolling bluffs of familiar territory, and far in front of them, a tiny cluster of wooden and stone buildings that made up Fort William. Mohe, seated atop his horse, gazed at them with an odd expression on his face.

"Your people, Mukki," he said, gesturing needlessly at the buildings.

Alfred nodded. "My people," he agreed, as Mohe slid off his horse, standing next to Alfred instead.

"You accept them, then?" Mohe asked, turning to meet Alfred's eyes.

Slightly taken aback, Alfred replied, "Of course I do!" He hadn't even needed to think about it, just like he hadn't needed to think about it back in the Revolution, or during the burning of Washington, or immersed in the teeming city life of Boston. The Americans were his, just like the Cherokee were Mohe's. He couldn't really explain it, it just _was._

Mohe smiled faintly. "That is good. Nek was worried that you wouldn't."

"Why?" Alfred asked.

"She thought that you might put your personal opinions over those of your people," Mohe said, looking back towards the distant fort. "I will tell her that those worries were unfounded."

"You know where she is?!" Alfred exclaimed, suddenly hopeful and desperate at the same time. "Can you tell me? Can I see her again?"

But Mohe just shook his head. "She also said you would want to see her, but that it is impossible."

"_Why?!" _he repeated, this time a plea, a deep-rooted desire put into words, because no matter what, Nek was always his Nek, his mother, his almost-forgotten past and someone he couldn't imagine absent from his future.

"She says that when the time is right, you will see her again. But for now, you must go where your people go." Mohe glanced at Lucretia and Sam, standing by the wagon and looking towards Fort William with excited gazes, and then at George, who was vigorously shaking the hands of the other two—very confused—Cherokee.

"But this is where we part, Mukki." Alfred smiled faintly.

"Thanks for taking us this far. We never would have gotten back on course without you."

Mohe grinned now, smiling broadly for the first time since Alfred had met him again, a smile of white teeth and crinkling eyes reminiscent of their first meeting all those years ago. "Anything for you, little brother."

_V~-~-~V_

Fort William was situated at the meeting spot of the North Platte and the Laramie rivers, and was a fairly new construction. It was really a fur trading outpost, not particularly protective of anything, but it was a good place for a wagon to stop to restock on supplies.

As newcomers, Alfred and the Atkinses were regarded curiously by everyone they passed, with Lucretia alone drawing most of the gawkers. After all, it wasn't often that a finely dressed lady (or any ladies at all for that matter) visited the fort.

"They're just uncultured," Lucretia said, sniffing at the small Indian trading encampment outside the fort. "I expect they have never seen anyone of my breeding in this… outpost." She sniffed again, and adjusted her hat (daffodil-colored for summer wear) while gazing imperiously at anyone they encountered from below its brim.

Sam and George looked around with blatant curiosity while Alfred led the group to what he assumed was the room in which they could trade something for food. He hadn't quite worked out _what_ they would trade yet, but he'd find something eventually.

The chatter that filled the fort was suddenly interjected with a loud cry of "_Donald!"_

Every head in the immediate vicinity turned to where there was another wagon with another lady in a hat who looked suspiciously like Lucretia.

"I guess they have seen yer breedin' before, Lucy," George said snidely. Lucretia shot him a glare, and immediately made a beeline for the other woman, who was currently chewing out a skinny-looking redhead.

"Honestly, Donald, why on _earth_ did I hire you if you can do _nothing_ but drop my things all over this horridly _dusty_ ground? Are you so very useless that you cannot even carry a _parasol_ properly?"

The redhead, who appeared to be Donald, was apologizing profusely, while making a vain attempt to dust off the parasol in question. The lady snatched it from his hand, and Donald quailed under the look she gave him.

Suddenly, another man appeared, a rather rotund man wearing a stiff gray suit that stretched about his middle, and who was also in possession of a mustache that reminded Alfred very much of someone else's eyebrows in its resemblance to a caterpillar that had crawled over his upper lip.

Instantly, the woman softened. "Terrence, darling! How did your purchasing go?"

"Just fine, my dear," the man replied, his voice booming yet failing to instill any sense of importance in the listener. "I got those furs you wanted for a _fraction_ of what they come at back east or in Canada, just a _fraction!_"

"Even a fraction of the Canadian price, darling? However did you manage that?"

"With my keen business mind, of course!" the man replied. "But I'm actually not positive about the Canadian price… I don't trust those Canadian dollars, do I?"

"Of course not, of course not." The woman glance around, and suddenly, her eyes lit upon Lucretia, who by this time had almost reached her, with Sam trailing not far behind. "Oh, my goodness! A sensible soul, at last!"

"I could say the same!" Lucretia exclaimed, looking happier than Alfred had seen her yet. The two immediately began twittering away, with the men (even Donald and the parasol) all forgotten.

"Such a shame she couldn't a-found her earlier," George muttered. "I woulda been saved an earful." Alfred nodded in agreement.

The puffed-up pigeon of a man was glaring at the newcomers, irritated at being ignored. "Who are you lot? I demand you introduce yourselves!"

Sam instantly apologized, cutting off George, who looked like he was about to make a sharply-worded reply. "Excuse us, but we just arrived. This is my wife, Lucretia, my brother-in-law, George, and our guide, Alfred Jones."

The pigeon-man's eyes bugged, and he regarded Alfred with an air of utter incredulity. "You—you're that Canadian! That man from the citizenship bureau! What in Heaven's name are you doing out here?!"

"Canadian?!" Alfred asked, indignant and feeling more offended than he probably should have. "I'm American all the way! I've never even _been_ to Canada!"

But the pigeon-man just shook his head, peering closer at Alfred. "If you're not him… you two certainly bear a striking resemblance! You could be twins!"

"I'd certainly remember if I had a twin brother."

"I suppose you would…" the man said, deflating slightly. "What was that man's name…?" He considered this new dilemma briefly, but suddenly, he puffed himself up to an even greater volume than before. Looking over George and Alfred, he said grandly, "With all of this, I forgot to introduce myself!" Extending a hand self-importantly, the other grasping his coat lapel, he declared, "My name is Terrence Westcott, owner of Westcott and Sons." He paused, before adding, "Inc."

"Ink?" George asked. "What's ink gotta do with anything?"

"Incorporated, man, incorporated!" George still bore a rather blank expression.

"Whaddaya sell at an 'incorporated'?"

"Westcott and Sons, Inc, a proud distributer of all varieties of farming implements, is making a westward move to supply a yet-untouched market with the very finest in modern agricultural equipment!" he announced, as if delivering a well-practiced speech.

"So…" Alfred asked, glancing at the redhead, who was now standing off to the side, looking rather grateful to be free of the woman's tirade, "is he your son?"

Mr. Westcott turned an alarming shade of puce. "No," he said stiffly, "I don't have any sons."

"Then who is he?" Alfred continued, gesturing at the redhead for emphasis.

The businessman turned, looking at the young man as if he'd never seen him before. "Oh, that's just Donald. He's a personal assistant my wife insisted on bringing."

Suddenly looking emboldened, Donald stepped forward, meeting Alfred's gaze a bit shyly. "I'm Donald Finnegan. Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones."

"Aw, don' go callin' Al 'Mr. Jones'!" George exclaimed. "He'll get a swelled head!"

Alfred shot George a glare. "No, I won't. But Alfred is fine."

Mr. Westcott, once again looking irritated at being ignored, directed the conversation back to himself. "We're leaving tomorrow, you know, off to Oregon Territory. Marietta _is_ tiring of this foul, dusty desert, and I need to find my land, and as they say, time is money and of the essence!"

Alfred considered pointing out that this land wasn't _really_ a desert, that the genuine deserts were off to the south in Mexico and were far drier than this, but Mr. Westcott was already off on some new tangent involving money and sand and state-of-the-art modern farming equipment, so he turned to George instead.

"You want to find something for dinner?"

George, who was excited by food just as easily as Alfred, threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders and began marching towards the main buildings of Fort William. "You just read my mind!"

The following day, the elated mood that Lucretia had developed once the Cherokees had left disappeared once again with the departure of Marietta Westcott.

"The only reasonable person I've met on this horrendous journey!" she lamented. "She truly understood the necessity of seasonally coordinated hats!"

_V~-~-~V_

Several miles away, with a new guide to continue their westward journey, Terrence Westcott suddenly burst, "_Matthew Williams!_ That's it!"

In his enthusiasm, he threw up an arm, whacking Donald soundly in the side, who squeaked and knocked a pile of Marietta Westcott's belongings off the side of the wagon.

But nobody noticed Donald, so nobody noticed when he missed a handkerchief in his frantic collection of the fallen belongings, leaving it forlornly crumpled in the dust.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So.<br>I meant for the Oregon Trail to only be three chapters long, but like this story in general, it seems to be taking longer than originally planned. I never thought I'd be writing anywhere _near_ twenty chapters on my first multi-chapter fic. This is turning into a freaking novel, I swear.

For history...  
>The Trail of Tears (known literally as the Place Where They Cried in Cherokee) happened as described, and is a tragedy often overlooked or barely mentioned in history courses, as our country doesn't seem to like pointing out the ugly parts of its past. But the forced movement of the Five Civilized Tribes out of their homeland and into Oklahoma was a brutal trip, killing an estimated third of the Cherokee population alone. Today, however, the Cherokee tribe is the largest Native American tribe in the country, hence the reason that Mohe hasn't disappeared.<br>Fort William was begun by fur traders in 1834, where the North Platte and Laramie rivers meet. In 1849, the US Military purchased it and renamed it Fort Laramie after Jacques La Ramie, a French trapper. It was a regular stopping spot for those traveling on the Oregon Trail.

As for time frame, I'm putting this story in midsummer of 1840. Yes, the Westcotts are those irritating folks from a couple chapters back, returning to annoy people (why do I write so many annoying characters?).  
>The whole hand-signal thing from last chapter is a very basic sign language developed by the Native Americans, of which I have no idea how extensive its vocabulary is, and have adapted for my purposes.<br>Donald is another new character, not a real or historically influential person. I sorta feel bad for the number of OC's in this story, but oh well...  
>I also really wanted to have Mattie sneeze at the end, when Mr. Westcott shouts his name, but resisted the urge.<p>

Next chapter probably won't be so detail-oriented, because they need to get to Oregon at _some _point, here.

And as always, feel free to ask a question or comment on this chapter in a review! See you next time!


	21. Willamette Valley

Back again, semi-on-time!

Thanks a bunch to Hinagiku Flower, skyspottedshadow, Aquarius-Otter, Phoenix, DontHaveAnAccoun (a guest... you forgot the T, I think), Jillo96, WeAllFlyHigh, petaltailify97, and especially Oniongrass (thanks for your always-interesting conversations!) for your wonderful reviews!  
>Another thank-you to Night's Panda, pofien, Regal Panther, KaiDreavus213, hurricaneclaw, iTorchic, Acacia-Tyyne, CluelessHuman, Microraptor Glider, and AgRose001 for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On to the final part of the Oregon Trail!

* * *

><p>Fort Hall was not dissimilar to Fort William, with its hastily erected stone walls and odd collection of people, the likes of who made Lucretia cringe. Soldiers bored of life at an outpost, fur traders, mountain men, and even the occasional native milled about, their own business each far more important than whatever it was anyone else was doing.<p>

The only person Lucretia deemed polite enough for her company was the portly storekeeper, who ran the trading post and unorthodox post office that had been set up in one of the fort's buildings. His girth was an enigma in and of itself, because keeping oneself well-fed at a minor territory outpost was something assumed to be quite difficult. Alfred suspected that he ate half of the things he was supposed to be selling, but he seemed content enough, so who was he to question the man?

The shopkeeper was also unusually jovial, but the genuine sort, not the half-crazy variety exhibited by most of the mountain men. He laughed loudly and easily, something Alfred could definitely agree with.

"That's the secret to happy living, my boy," he had said once, clapping Alfred on the back. "Run a shop in a place with no shops. You've got no competition, plenty of company, and all the free stuff you could want!" Sam had looked appalled at that, and immediately questioned the integrity and general common sense of the portly man, but he'd just laughed and asked if Sam had ever had such success.

"Why do you stay here, though?" Alfred had asked. "You could keep going, and set up a store in Oregon. Even _less_ competition, you know."

"Ah, but there's no company out there!" the man said, wagging his finger. "And besides, can you see me hoofing it over those mountains? No siree, I'm just fine right here, just fine. You, on the other, have no idea what you're getting yourself into with those Cascades, no idea. There's a reason they say they're impassable by wagoners like yourselves."

That was certainly true. On their first day at Fort Hall, they'd been informed by another group of emigrants that they needed to abandon their wagons, because the mountains were simply too steep.

Lucretia, of course, had thrown a fit. "But my things!" she exclaimed. "How am I going to carry my hatboxes and heirlooms across the mountains without a wagon? I refuse to submit to such conditions!"

But they'd been firm, and the portly shopkeeper had seconded their opinion. Lucretia had gone from incredulous to outright furious, shrieking at George and Sam for their crazy desire to come west in the first place, when they had a lovely home back in Missouri, and why couldn't they just leave well enough alone and not force her through a land full of dust and awful food and Injuns and _dust—_

"Ah, but you've got your family with you!" the shopkeeper had said cheerfully. "And may I say, such a wonderful son. You must be so proud, so proud." He winked at Alfred, who could barely contain his laughter as Lucretia went from beet red to sheet white in no time flat, her eyes widening comically from beneath the brim of her hat. George fell off his chair, practically sobbing in hysterics.

"_Well,_" she huffed, "I _never!_" She stormed out of the shop, with Sam trailing after her.

After she'd left, the shopkeeper continued talking to Alfred. "You lot are a bit unusual," he said, frowning slightly and leaning across the counter as he spoke. "Most come through earlier, if they want to beat the snows in the Cascades. Did you just start late?"

Alfred flushed lightly, glancing at a buffalo hide that was suddenly _particularly_ interesting. "Nah… we started fine, but got a bit… lost, along the way. Nothing too bad."

"It's a miracle you made it back on course," the man said solemnly. "Once you leave the trail in unmapped territory, it's a beastly difficult thing to return." Alfred just nodded in agreement, choosing to stay silent.

"Did you at least get to Independence Rock on time?"

Alfred shook his head. One of the main landmarks on the trail, Independence Rock was meant to be reached by the 4th of July. Instead, he'd celebrated his birthday quietly, while lost somewhere in Oklahoma territory.

"We made it eventually," he said. "Didn't stay long."

But while they were there, George, grinning broadly, had grabbed a knife from the wagon and carved _GEORGE CATRON_ in big, bold letters on the rock face.

"C'mon, Al! You too! Don't make me the only one!"

"I believe that's called defacement of a landmark," Sam had said, his voice tinged with concern. George's wheedling, though, persisted, until Alfred snatched the knife and wrote _ALFRED F JONES_ in even larger letters.

"There," he'd said smugly, and George had snatched the knife back, glaring, but with no real malice behind it.

Lucretia had looked up from fanning her face in the shade of the wagon long enough to say, "That's not your name, John."

The Atkins wagon party left Fort Hall after a week, bringing with them the oxen and leaving the wagon at the gates, with over half of their things still inside. Alfred's trunk had been partially emptied to make room for some of George's things before it was strapped to Sunnyside's back. Sam did the same with his trunk, and Lucretia had packed and repacked it countless times in order to fit the most dresses as was humanly possible inside.

Lucretia looked ludicrous, with three progressively larger hats stacked on her head and one dress worn over another, but nobody could fault her for trying. She had broken down sobbing when she realized that the French bureau would have to be left behind, and had been in such a despondent mood since that nobody bothered her.

They were nearing the home stretch of the trail, as the altitude progressively increased. They cut through the lower part of the Rocky Mountains with no real problems, other than the fact that it rained nearly every afternoon, but a few light thunderstorms were almost welcome after the dust of the prairie.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred was trailing the group up yet another mountain when Sam, leading the oxen at the front, suddenly stopped. Lucretia and George joined him, and suddenly all Alfred could think about was Lewis, standing over yet another valley, expecting to see the Pacific Ocean stretched before him.

In fact, their expressions were almost identical.

Alfred came up beside George, and to his surprise, saw a small settlement of sorts, a cluster of buildings on the banks of a river.

"It's the Dalles!" he exclaimed, "We're almost there!"

"Yes," said Sam, "but just _look._"

So Alfred did, following the gazes of his companions to stare at the river ahead. The Colombia, it was called, known for being wide and as impassible for emigrants as they came.

"It's not so bad," Alfred said, trying to lift the general mood. "We've forded rivers before. Remember the Snake? You were unsure about that, too, but we're just fine."

"Yeah, Al," George muttered, "but the Snake didn' have busted up rafts and big ole jagged evil rocks everywhere."

"Mm… this time we'll need to raft for real. There's no other route."

"Not even across the mountains? Land seems so much safer," Lucretia said, looking fearfully from the waters below to the steep peaks ahead.

Alfred remembered Mt Hood, the towering, white-capped monstrosity of a mountain, with its steep sides and nigh-impassable terrain. They'd done it, sure, but it had been difficult, and that was with a bunch of soldiers and seasoned explorers who had gone out of their way to _avoid_ directly crossing the peak.

"Nope," he said firmly. "We'd kill ourselves for sure."

The group was silent for several moments. Finally, George exclaimed, "Well, that was cheerful, but I'm hungry and tired and going down there," he gestured at the settlement, "now."

_V~-~-~V_

"So... what're you goin' to do, once we get to Oregon?"

Alfred looked up from his boots to meet George's gaze from across the evening campfire, then bent his head again to resume his scrubbing.

"I don't really know," he said contemplatively. "I guess I never really thought that far ahead. I left on a spur-of-the-moment thing, you know." His boots were falling apart, the soles punched almost clean through, the sides and laces in tatters from thousands of miles of walking. But they'd served him well, and his blisters always healed so much quicker.

"How d'you not know?" George asked, incredulous. "It's all I've been thinkin' of this whole way! All Sam and Luce've been thinkin' of! You can't tell me you don' know anythin'!"

His hand moved in a circular motion, rubbing the leather thought it was already as clean as it was going to get. The dust was just too ingrained in the fabric, filling even the stitching with gritty brown. But he kept scrubbing, a mindless action, something he remembered from years and years ago, a small tent in a frozen valley.

"Maybe I'll help you with your farm," Alfred said finally. "I've done farm work before, and I don't think Sam knows what he's getting into, with all that land to clear and just the two of you." When George didn't say anything, Alfred looked up again, suddenly worried. "Of course, I'd leave right away if you don't want me there—"

But George was grinning, not frowning. "Would ya really, Al? Stay an' help us get settled?"

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but was suddenly interrupted by a shriek that pierced the peaceful early evening. Immediately, he leapt up, hastily jerking his boots back on his feet, leaving the laces loose as he sprinted toward the source of the sound, George close behind, because they had both recognized the pitch of that cry.

Turning into the main cluster of buildings that made up the settlement at the Dalles, Alfred's eyes immediately went to the wagon moving forward through the streets, and the brightly colored hat that stood out so from the dull tones of the rest of the crowd.

"Luce!" George cried, beside his sister in seconds. "What's wrong?!"

But Lucretia was completely focused on something entirely different. "Marietta!" she exclaimed, throwing herself forward toward the moving cart.

"Lucretia!" the other woman cried. In her exuberance, she leapt forward from the wagon seat, jostling a familiar red-haired figure who sat beside her. He cried out and fell sideways, tumbling downwards towards the ground as the oxen, suddenly without anyone holding the reins and startled by the women's shrieks, began moving faster.

Alfred reacted without thinking, in his certainty that that red hair was falling, falling under the wagon, and the oxen were spooked and those wheels were turning faster and nobody was noticing-

"AL!"

He was suddenly in the place of the red hair, and the other boy was rolling away from the wagon. He barely had time to feel relieved before a sickening _CRUNCH_ echoed through the settlement, drowning out the sounds of voices and sending him reeling into a world where there was only pain, pain, and deep red dust on the road.

_V~-~-~V_

When Alfred again opened his eyes, it was only a crack. The world was too bright around him for much more.

But he saw something intriguing, and pulled his eyelids apart again, peering closer. It was a square of white cloth, neatly folded on a wooden table very close to his head, with a flower garland and two letters, a looping _MW_, neatly embroidered in the corner.

A handkerchief, he thought, wondering why it was there. Then he wondered where exactly _there_ was, and abruptly, the world got even brighter as a door opened nearby, spilling light inside.

"Al!"

He turned toward the familiar voice, and realized that he was lying down, on a bed. He hadn't had a bed in months, not since leaving Independence. So why...?

"You're awake!" George exclaimed, and Alfred made the effort to look up into his widely grinning face. "Ya really had me worried there!" He looked like he was joking, but his voice sounded strained, and there were inky smudges beneath his eyes.

"George?"

"Didn't hit yer head hard enough to forget me, then! But seriously, Al," he suddenly looked angry, "don't you _ever_ do that again!"

Alfred was about to ask what, exactly, he shouldn't do again, but he suddenly remembered that falling red hair and wooden wheels and the red dust beneath his face.

"How's..." he tried to ask, but his throat constricted, his voice hoarse. "Is Donald... all right?" he tried again.

George looked faintly annoyed, but replied, "Sure, the kid's fine, thanks t'you." He took a deep breath, a strangely familiar expression coming over his face. "But you, Al... you should've died."

That didn't make sense to Alfred, not at all. He felt… almost fine, if one ignored the numb pain in his left leg and the pounding headache.

But that wasn't it, not completely. He simply did not understand how it was possible to almost die, not for him. The concept of death was a familiar thing, after all; people died all the time, fading from his life until only stones in the ground remained, but he was still there, forever and always.

"What?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say, but the single syllable felt inadequate on his lips.

George continued to fix Alfred with that strange look, hesitant and wary. "You should be dead, Alfred," he said quietly, the first time Alfred had ever heard him speak so seriously. "You dove after that kid, slid under the wagon, an' were..." he looked slightly ill, "...squished."

"Squished?" Alfred echoed faintly. "I don't remember that..."

George cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah. Threw the womenfolk into a right state, ya did. I mean, a death by wagon wouldn't-a been that unusual, but for you to be the one dying... nobody expected that at all."

"Why?" Alfred asked, curious now, but almost dreading an answer.

"Well... you've always been better at everythin', ya know? Don't get hot, don't get cold, walk forever without bein' too tired, and yer brother's an _Injun_..." He had the decency to flush slightly. "I'm not the superstitious type, but Luce's a differen' story, an' this whole... thing..." George trailed off, and glanced away from Alfred, who by now had pushed himself into a sitting position.

_You should have expected this someday_, Alfred chided himself. _It's a miracle you've made it this long, really._

"It's a miracle!"

Alfred wondered if he'd spoken aloud as his gaze jerked to the door, which was thrown violently open by one very loud Marietta Westcott. It took him a moment to realize that she had actually spoken, and was currently twittering at his bedside, which he had determined to be in one of the settlement's small buildings. Lucretia stood quietly behind her, watching Alfred from beneath the brim of her hat.

"Your recovery, Alfred, is truly miraculous! Not only were your heroics so brave and noble and self-sacrificing," George snorted off to the side, and Marietta shot him a glare before continuing, "…they saved Donald's life, and were rewarded by a speedy and impossible recovery! Simply wonderful!"

She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, identical to the one folded on Alfred's bedside table, and lightly dabbed at her eyes. Alfred turned to look at Lucretia instead as Marietta continued praising his virtues and proclaiming miracles.

"I am glad to see you well again, Mr. Jones," Lucretia said stiffly. "How soon can we expect to leave this horrid place?"

_V~-~-~V_

The Willamette Valley was a peaceful place, full of tall, broad fir trees that had lived there for generations, lending a feeling of _oldness_ to the place, as if it had been waiting, untouched for millennia, so it could breath with the full vibrancy of life just for the new arrivals.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, even with the slight bite of oncoming winter chill, and Alfred had honestly wondered if they were really there at all.

The river had lived up to its name, frightening the daylights out of everyone as the men spent all hours of the day attempting to steer the makeshift raft safely through the rapids. Nothing could be cooked, so they'd lived off cold jerky, attempting to hide in shelters made of piled trunks as the freezing snowmelt-water sprayed over the sides.

But they'd made it, and after crossing one final hill, the whole party (plus the Donald and the Westcotts) was miraculously silent and complaint-free, for once in two thousand miles.

"It's perfect," Sam breathed.

Suddenly, Lucretia was all words. "Oh, my stars, we have so much to do! I want a cabin, right there beside that big fir tree, with a kitchen and two bedrooms and a big space with a puncheon floor for living and having company and a rose garden outside. And Marietta, you and your husband simply _have _to stay close by so we can visit all the time, and just look over there! I see smoke! There must be more people nearby! Oh, we really _must_ go say hello, introduce ourselves…"

She went on, pulling Marietta with her as they planned the logistics of visiting. Alfred began the process of untying all of their belongings from the Daisy and Sunnyside's backs after tying the oxen, together with the pair of mules the Westcotts had bought at the Dalles, to a nearby tree.

The wagon that had shattered his leg had been abandoned at the Dalles, unable to be transported further. The only reason it had been there in the first place was at the insistence of Marietta Westcott, who had deviated from the trail and extended the time of their journey just to bring her things with her.

Alfred couldn't help but feel vindicated as it was chopped up for wood to make their raft.

He wondered absently, fingers still working with the knots holding their belongings in place, if the river he'd seen running through the valley was part of the Multnomah, the river named by Clark just a bit away from their current location. Whatever its source, it was probably responsible for the sheer greenness of the valley.

And he couldn't help but feel sorry that he would spoil it, just as his people had spoiled the eastern coast, and the land of Mohe's people, and the Algonquin, and all the other unnamed tribes that had once lived there peacefully, coexisting with the land itself.

But as he watched George laugh and Sam grin as they looked over what was to be their new home, he felt an overwhelming sense of pride that it was _his people_ who had done the unthinkable and crossed a continent in search of a new life, new opportunities, and place to call their own.

"So much free land, all to be farmed by Westcott and Sons products!" boomed Terrence Westcott. "Marvelous, isn't it, Donald?" The redhead just smiled, setting Marietta's parasol on top of her trunk before lying back on the ground, looking perfectly content.

Alfred turned just in time to see Sam appear beside him, eyes sparkling.

"Alfred," he said, a calm joy filling his words, "I just wanted to thank you, for staying with us the whole way through." He sighed happily. "It's everything I dreamt it would be."

Alfred, unable to help himself, felt his old boisterous grin return again to his face.

"Anything for a fellow American."

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>Phew... finally done with the Oregon Trail. Now we can move forth with the plot, yes?<p>

History, as always, comes first:  
>Fort Hall was established in 1834 on the Snake River as a fur trading post, hence the buffalo hide Alfred sees (on an unrelated note, I tried bison jerky for the first time today... it was interesting). Early emigrants disposed of their wagons here, and 1843 was the first time someone managed to follow the Trail west from there in a wagon, hence the deviation taken by the Westcotts (because hey, we're still in 1840 here!).<br>Independence Rock is named thus because emigrants knew that if they reached it by July 4th, their journey proceeding on schedule. Since Alfred got lost, they were no longer on time, despite leaving when they were supposed to (the Westcotts are just clueless people). Independence Rock (128 feet high, 1900 feet long, and 700 feet wide) is also called the "Great Register of the Desert" because more than 5000 early emigrants carved their names into its surface.  
>The Dalles was named by French fur trappers, meaning "gutter." Here, emigrants rafted down the Colombia to Oregon City, an extremely dangerous venture in the rocky river gorge. In 1845, the Barlow Toll Road opened, offering a safer alternate route the long way around Mt Hood.<br>One in ten emigrants on the trail died, but mainly because of disease or commonplace accidents that generally involved wagons, livestock, or guns. It was frightfully easy to get run over by a wagon or shot accidentally, but the emigrants were generally more afraid of the natives, despite the fact that there were very few recorded incidents of natives bothering wagon trains. And Alfred got run over because I didn't want to kill anyone off so close to the finish line, and the whole "He's a Nation!" thing needs to be brought back into focus a bit.

I hope you enjoyed the Oregon Trail (because it _did_ take four chapters to cover completely), and please look forward to the California Gold Rush of 1849, coming soon!

As always, any questions or comments are always appreciated, so please don't hesitate to write a review! I do so enjoy feedback!

Until next time!


	22. California

A new chapter, somewhat late on Sunday. I considered publishing it tomorrow evening, but... no.

Thanks loads to Night's Flower, the Bluegayle, SpiritMusician, HarryPotterForLife7, hurricaneclaw, Aquarius-Otter, Oniongrass, seenlee93, Verachime, Petaltailify97, WildHeart, and Person for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to silvernight01, flying-chipmunk, , it's pronounced 'lowlight, and again to seenlee93 and Verachime for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Chapter ahoy!

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><p><em>1846<em>

"Looks like rain, Al."

Shrugging on his warmer winter coat, Alfred stepped out the cabin door, and was greeted by the fresh, damp smell of a coming storm. The air was cold, however, and crisper than normal, biting his cheeks in a way it didn't normally.

"Do you think it'll snow?" he asked George, who had paused just outside the cabin. In their four previous winters in the Willamette Valley, it had snowed fairly little, something Alfred found himself liking after so many years of east coast blizzards. He still shivered every time he recalled Valley Forge.

George just shrugged, and pulled his scarf tighter. "Maybe. I dunno. The cabin'll hold up either way, an' we've got enough food for awhile at least."

That was certainly true. After the first year of land clearing and struggling to get any more than a meager number of plants to actually grow, Sam had gotten the hang of farming, and now the Atkins land yielded a fairly generous harvest every year. True to his earlier promise, Alfred had stayed on with the little family, and helped them build the cabin they still lived in.

It was a modest building, made only of logs, mud, and wooden pegs, and it still only had two rooms. But it had a sturdy roof and enough space for three beds, a table, and a hearth, so they called it home.

Alfred and George set off for the town, an ever-growing settlement on the banks of the Willamette River that everyone called Oregon City. With only a few mills, stores, and a post office, it wasn't much of a city, but it was the next-best thing.

The population of the area certainly had increased since they'd first arrived, and even in early January, just after Christmas, people were out in full force. Particularly, Alfred supposed, because the courier from the Dalles had come earlier that day.

"I'd best be gettin' that fabric Luce wanted… meet ya back here in a half-hour?"

Alfred nodded absently as George waved and hurried off toward one of the town's stores. As he grew farther and farther away, Alfred squinted to try to see him, and was vaguely alarmed to realize that he couldn't, that George represented only a gray smudge in a sea of similarly-colored smudges.

This lack of vision was something fairly new. He had started to notice it last spring, with things just getting a bit fuzzy around the edges, but by Christmas Alfred found himself unable to see anything more than ten feet away.

_Am I getting old?_

Shaking his head, Alfred tried to dispel the thought. _Of course_ he was old, but he certainly _looked_ no different, so what exactly was causing his sight to abruptly fail?

Pushing his way into the familiar store of Westcott and Sons, he was greeted by a red smudge behind the brown smudge that was the counter. It neared, solidifying into a grinning Donald Finnegan.

"Mr. Jones! It's nice to see you again!"

Alfred laughed at the title, which had become something of a running joke, while looking around to ensure that Marietta Westcott wasn't in. She still hadn't gotten over his "miracle," and gushed about it every time she saw him. It was all rather embarrassing.

"You too, Donald. What's got everyone in a tizzy today?"

"You haven't heard?" the redhead exclaimed, sounding incredulous. "Just look!" He waved an arm at the bulletin board behind the counter. Clearly, there was something important there, but Alfred couldn't make it out. Leaning over the counter, he squinted, willing the posters to become clear, but they continued to waver until he gave up.

"What's it say?"

Donald gave him an odd look. "Can't you read it? We've got a new state! Our government up and decided to annex that Texas place down south!"

It was Alfred's turn to be incredulous. "A new state? We just… took part of Mexico?"

"Yep! I don't know what's so special about it, just a lot of sand in my opinion, but our government seems to want it. Apparently, negotiations have been going on for a while, but it's official as of December 29th." His enthusiasm tapered off a bit as he saw Alfred, still squinting to no avail.

"You really can't see that?" Donald inquired softly. Alfred shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah… I don't know what's wrong."

"Have you considered getting glasses? I think Harris down at the general store just got some from back east. Maybe you should go try some on."

That was sounding better and better to Alfred. "Yeah. Maybe I should." He turned, a new purpose in mind. "I'll see you later, Donald!"

The redhead waved, his figure distorting as Alfred walked away, and made for Harris's shop down the street. Entering, he greeted the man and wasted no time.

"Glasses? I think I do have some," Harris said, stroking his bushy red beard in thought. "They're kept in the back, to prevent people from breaking them, you know. But since when have you needed them, Alfred?"

Alfred smiled ruefully but didn't answer as Harris presented him with several pairs to choose from. One round pair did almost nothing, another made his head hurt, and a third felt so fragile in his hands he was sure they'd shatter if he so much as put them on. Then he chose a thin-rimmed square pair, placed them carefully on his nose, and bit back a gasp as the world resolved around him into a place much clearer than before.

"I'll take them!"

_V~-~-~V_

One winter day in 1848, Alfred woke, blinking sleepily at the rough-hewn beams of the cabin ceiling from his homemade mattress was unprepared for the sudden, undeniable urge to go to California that hit him before he even had time to form a coherent thought.

When he mentioned it during breakfast shortly after, Lucretia had peered at him with that reserved suspicion she'd developed over the past few years, Sam looked faintly amused, and George had told him he was bonkers.

But the urge wouldn't go away. Alfred recognized it from years ago as something he'd gotten used to, a feeling in the pit of his stomach and his chest and the back of his mind, directing his every thought south to the territory that was still, technically, a part of Mexico.

So he badgered George for weeks, because George was crazy and George was his best friend and George would eventually agree to a new adventure, especially once planting season came along and Sam started getting antsy. But judging by the way he glanced in Lucretia's direction every time Alfred approached him about it, she'd gotten to him first.

"But it'd be _fun," _Alfred said, trying very, very hard not to whine. "It'd be a new place, and you always say how much you hate planting corn. Wasn't adventure what you came out here for in the first place?"

George's opinion was unchangeable until two months later, when confirmed word of gold finally reached Oregon territory. Excited, the younger Catron had run back to the homestead from town, brandishing the latest news wildly over his head.

"Al, buddy, you were right all along! California's the place to be!"

"Excellent," Lucretia snapped. "When are you leaving?"

George looked mildly alarmed at the venom in her voice. "Luce…? Who said anythin' about leavin'?"

"Oh, don't you joke with me, John Madison Catron, junior. You know as well as I that when you get an idea in your head, you act on it without thinking of the consequences… especially when _he's_ involved." She jerked her hand in an abruptly aborted gesture towards Alfred.

"It's not like that, Luce! Sure, Al's got grand plans, but who said I was in on 'em? I just said he was right all along about California, an' that _maybe_ we could consider… investin', in a place where there's gold?"

Sam was glancing helplessly between them as Lucretia burst, "But what about _here?!_ Haven't you invested enough in this place to even _care_ that you'll be leaving it? That we'll have no one to help Sam in the fields if the both of you go? It's probably all a hoax, and you'll be throwing away everything you have for it!"

"It's not a hoax!"

The three others in the small cabin all turned to look at Alfred.

"And why," Lucretia asked icily, "is it not a hoax?"

"It just…" Alfred paused, wondering how to explain it. "It just isn't, I know it's not."

"And how are you so certain of this?"

"I just know," Alfred said, quietly now, looking anywhere but at Lucretia Atkins.

"You just… know. Fine. My brother is going to leave to California, hundreds of miles away, on a whim and a probable rumor, because _you just know._" Alfred winced.

"Then," she continued, her voice rising in pitch, "should I just chalk that up as another part of your unnaturalness?"

Shocked, Alfred's gaze whipped back to the woman, standing with her hands on her hips in her forest-green dress for winter wear. An altogether unimposing figure, but it was her words that did the damage. George and Sam looked just as surprised as he, staring at Lucretia as well.

"Why are you so baffled?" she asked, turning on her family. "Don't tell me you haven't wondered yourselves! He claims to have traveled across the country before, but his apparent age is far too young, and he survived being _crushed under a wagon_ without even a _scar_ to show for it! I'm even willing to bet that you two haven't even _noticed _that he hasn't changed a bit since we first met him, and that was nearly _ten years ago!_"

Lucretia spun slowly back to face Alfred, who knew his face was utterly devoid of color. "You may have Marietta fooled into thinking you're some kind of _miracle_," she said, her words bitingly cold, "but I am not so easily deceived."

"_For all we know, he was cursed by some witch to remain a child, or is some sort of sorcerer himself!"_

"_Why don't you get older, Alfie?"_

_Knowing gray, piercing blue, chocolate brown, and eyes the exact color of his own, all studying, all wondering._

"Fine," Alfred heard himself say, but his mind was far away. "I'll just… go then. By myself." _Like always._

Moving almost in slow motion, he gathered his things, tossing them together in a leather satchel and shrugging on his coat. Throwing open the door he'd helped build, he marched away from the cabin and firmly out of the lives of the Atkinses.

At least, he thought so. But at the edge of town, he heard someone shout his name.

"Al!" George ran up beside him, jacket dangling off one shoulder, bag in hand. "Wait up, buddy!"

"George? What're you doing?"

"I'm comin' with ya, stupid."

"Didn't you listen to your sister?" Alfred snapped. "She doesn't want me here, and she doesn't want you following."

"She didn't mean all that, ya know," George said. "Luce can sound awful sometimes, but she doesn't really want ya gone."

"Really? I think different."

George paused. "Okay, so maybe she does. She's always been the superstitious type, an' ya know that, but there's no way I'm lettin' my best bud run off to California without me! I've always been wantin' an adventure, after all."

Alfred found himself grinning in spite of his dampened mood. "An adventure, huh?"

"Yeah! We'll find loads of gold, an' we'll bring it back an' never have to want nothin' ever again! Heck, we could even buy out that idiot Westcott!"

Alfred's grin widened. "Sounds like a plan!"

_V~-~-~V_

It was a few months before Alfred and George reached their destination: the rapidly expanding city of San Francisco.

They'd taken the Siskiyou Trail south from Oregon City, traversing rugged mountains on horseback for part of the way, on foot the rest, before George finally exclaimed, "Water! I see water!" and San Francisco Bay appeared over the hill, glittering and blue and so very close.

They'd had to take a boat to get to the city proper, which had sprung up on the hilly outcropping between the bay and the ocean. The people who walked the dusty streets were all men, grizzled and worn, hailing from anywhere nearby, hoping to get their hands on some gold before the rest of the country showed up. Hastily erected stone and wooden buildings littered the slopes, housing stores and inns and bars, all serving the growing population and recently arrived prospective miners at exorbitant prices.

"This's madness!" George exclaimed. "Crazy nonsense!" He stormed out of one of the stores to where Alfred was waiting in the street.

"We don' have enough money with the both of us _combined_ to buy _squat! _How do they expect ta get anythin' done if they're robbin' ya blind?!"

So Alfred had gone in to talk to the shopkeeper, a gruff man who clearly was in the wrong line of work, and wheedled the price down to something more reasonable. He blamed it on his natural way with his people when the man almost immediately warmed up to him.

"I like you, kid," he said, "and this gold business is for idiots. Interested in working here instead? Selling to gullible people is where all the money's at."

Alfred politely declined, saying that he'd like to try his hand at mining first, maybe later?

He still left the shop with a pair of spades and gold pans for far less than the advertised price, greeting a gawking George.

"How'd ya do that, Al?"

Alfred grinned. "People just like me. You, on the other hand…"

George punched him in the shoulder, but was smiling ear to ear. "Off ta the mountains then, are we? The gold's a-waitin'!"

As they marched confidently away, neither with any idea where exactly they were going (but confident that first sleep, and then gold, would be there), a steamboat pulled into a San Francisco harbor filled with sails and masts, belching black smoke into the clear sky afternoon sky, carrying the latest group of people down from Sacramento to the capital of the gold-hunting world.

_V~-~-~V_

Miles away, on the other side of the mountains from Gold Country, an enterprising young man greeted his latest customers, arriving at his shop weary from the months-long journey they were so close to completing. Part of the Mormon settlement in the foothills, the young man, whose name was James, was proud of the success of his business thus far, achieved with little spending on his part. All he had to do was pick up the various articles wagoners left behind, and the rest took care of itself.

A young lady entered, looking around with the air of someone at a particularly fascinating tourist spot. James thought she was rather pretty, even the small mole to the right of her nose.

"Excuse me," she said, "but I was wondering if you had any handkerchiefs? Mine was lost a ways back, and I haven't had the opportunity to replace it."

James's brain took a moment to catch up. "Oh, erm, handkerchiefs? Yes, we have those, just over here…"

The lady picked up each of the handkerchiefs individually, rubbing their fabric between her fingers and muttering about quality and fringes and stitching all the while.

"This one's rather nice," she finally said, in a louder voice now.

"What?"

She smiled at James, which only made his thoughts get even more jumbled. "I said, this one's rather nice. The fabric is of fine quality, well-cared for yet not heavily used, definitely owned by someone of the upper class, not even to mention the monogramming…"

James caught sight of the initials, a looping _MW_ in the corner. He remembered finding this one, a few years before, yet he'd been unable to sell it precisely because of the rather uncommon set of initials.

"Are those yours? Your initials, I mean."

"Oh, no," the lady said, smiling again. "My name is Olive Rush. I just have a particular fondness for pretty and useful things. How much would you like for it?"

"Eh? Oh…" James paused for a moment, considering for just a bit longer. "You can have it," he finally said, "I've been trying to sell it for years, but you're the first who's shown interest."

"Truly? That's lovely of you. I'll be off now!" She swept out of the shop so fast James wondered faintly if she'd actually been there all. Shrugging himself into motion, he moved back behind his counter and wondered faintly where that lady was going.

"Olive, huh?"

It would be a few days before he realized that two additional handkerchiefs were missing, and another week before he admitted it was probably she who absconded with them.

_V~-~-~V_

"Got anythin'?"

"Nothing. You?"

"I found a rock earlier that was kinda shiny, but it was just wet."

Alfred set his shovel down and rolled his eyes. "You're standing in a _river_, George."

"Don't ya think I know that? I'm soaked clean to my skivvies! An' it's not really a river, it's more of a creek sorta thing—"

Alfred sighed. "You sure you're not just doing it wrong?"

"How can ya sift through _water _wrong?!"

"Fightin' already?"

Alfred and George both looked up in the direction of the voice. A rather rotund, bearded man stood there, fitting every mental image Alfred had with his flannel shirt, jeans, and pick slung over his shoulder.

"Fightin's no good, 'specially among friends!" he grinned toothily through his red beard. "And yer problem with yer findin' gold is there's no gold here to be found, didn't ye know?"

"No, we didn't," George retorted. "How'd _you?_ You've been here for less'n a minute!"

The man hefted his pick off his shoulder, approaching Alfred with great booted steps, until he suddenly swung his pick down, whooshing straight by Alfred's face as he scrambled backwards.

"What was _that?! _Are you trying to _kill _me?!" he exclaimed, but the man paid him no mind. Instead, he pulled the pick from the ground and began licking it around the edges in a motion that looked very well-practiced.

"Nothin'. See?"

George's mouth dropped open. "Ya can _taste_ gold?!" he burst incredulously.

"O'course! I'm the greatest prospector the world's ever seen! I know gold when I taste it!"

"The greatest?" asked Alfred.

"Well… the greatest in a five-mile radius, give or take a few," he said, frowning faintly. Then he grinned again and said, "The name's Cornelius! What's ye say about a little business proposition?"

_V~-~-~V_

Across an ocean, the news of gold on the American continent reached the ears of a certain black-haired man.

"Of course, I discovered it long before that stupid Spain," he muttered, a bit resentfully. "But why would I care about someplace far far away when I have everything I need right here?"

His boss looked up from the pile of papers before him, studying him through narrowed eyes. "Exactly. Why would you want to go anywhere when our great country has everything under the sun of any importance at all?"

"Except giraffes."

"Excuse me?"

The younger-looking of the pair looked back at his boss. "They brought a giraffe to the palace several years ago, all the way from Africa. We had parades and everything." Quieter, he added, "It was fun. I never get any fun anymore."

His boss gave an exasperated sigh. "Didn't you go to the mountains to see the pandas just last month? Wasn't that fun?"

"Yes, but no one came with me, aru. Kiku always loved the mountains, but now he won't see me. And you chased Hong Kong away too, and gave him to that stupid England!"

"Stop whining about your so-called siblings!" his boss exclaimed. "You're always complaining about them leaving you, every single day!"

"You never had your siblings all leave without so much as a goodbye."

"That's because I'm the Emperor, and my siblings are all ungrateful leeches, spending _my_ money without a thought. Maybe I should just order them all killed…"

"Like you killed Prince Yiwei?"

"I forbid you from mentioning him!"

The younger-looking man stuck his tongue out at his country's leader.

"Stop being childish, Wang. You are far too old for such plebian actions." He paused momentarily. "Maybe you would fit in with all the peasants leaving the country after all…"

"Yes, yes I would. And I wouldn't be bothering you anymore, and I'd be able to avoid Russia, and all those stupid Europeans with their illegal imports, and I could have _fun."_

The Daoguang Emperor waved a dismissive hand. "If you really wish to go that badly, go. But you'd be leaving your country and your people behind in a time of struggle…"

"I've lived four thousand years, aru!" the younger-looking man exclaimed. "Believe me, this is no struggle at all. And if you don't get through it, one of your descendants will, it's all the same to me."

The Emperor looked mildly offended at this, but waved his brush again. "Off with you, brat. Explore this new continent with its gold, and you will come to see that I am correct: these foreigners mean nothing but trouble, and China already has all it needs."

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Chapter complete, and history first!<p>

The annexation of Texas by the US government was formally agreed to by the government of Texas on December 29th, 1845, though the plan had been in the works for months. The annexation, as you can imagine, made Mexico quite upset, and prompted the Mexican-American War, which lasted from 1846-1848.  
>Gold was first discovered in California by James Marshall at Sutter's Mill on January 24th, 1848. Confirmed word of gold reached various places in California, Oregon, and Hawaii first, prompting a mass influx of people from there before the East Coast even figured it out. The Siskiyou Trail went from what is today Portland to San Francisco, and is today known as Interstate 5.<br>Gold mining equipment was sold at ridiculous prices to miners all hoping to strike it rich in the mountains, and in the end, the real winners of the Gold Rush were not those who actually got gold, but the shopkeepers and various middle men.  
>San Francisco went from a sleepy place of only about 200 people to over 30000 as a result of the Gold Rush, with San Francisco Bay becoming one of the most prominent ports in the world thanks to its natural harbor.<br>Many Chinese peasants traveled to California in search of gold as well. We'll have more on them later.  
>The Daoguang Emperor was the eighth emperor of the Qing Dynasty and ruled from 1820 to his death in 1850. Under his reign, China had major issues with the opium trade, which had grown to 30,000 chests a year. Technologically and militarily inferior to the European powers, lost the First Opium War and surrendered Hong Kong in 1842.<br>Daoguang also struck and killed his 23-year-old son in 1831. In the same year, an attempt was made to usurp the throne, but was unsuccessful.

I told you the handkerchief would be back!

And that's about it. Please look forward to the next chapter, featuring a continuation of the Gold Rush and an encounter with China!


	23. Gold Rush: Part I

A bit late on this one, yes, but I was sick last weekend and the SF Giants just won the World Series. What can I say?

A thanks to reviewers, of course! Lots of love to seenlee93, HarryPotterForLife7, Lapis Lazuli Ichigo, Gibbelbeans3, Zeplerfer, hurricaneclaw, Miri, Petaltailify97, the Bluegayle, WeAllFlyHigh, Aquarius-Otter, phoenixphlight, and Night's Flower for all of your wonderful and encouraging reviews!  
>Also thanks to closedofHeart, Hitokiri Snake, Explodingcorndogs, Myjen123, Maikotsu band of Seven, anatric, blueorgray1236, Miss Transylvania, 0010111000101110001011100011 11 (hope I spelled that right), Tavialover14, Ahntanya's-Hope, 99x999801, shizukoyasu, and again to Zeplerfer, phoenixphlight, Night's Flower, and seenlee93 for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On a related note, this story has achieved 100 followers! Thanks to everyone for their continued support!

On to the stuff you're actually here for...

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><p>After a month of digging and panning and sifting through endless grains of sand, Alfred still felt elated at the idea of California, a euphoric daydream that didn't quite match the blistered hands and ragged hems of his daily reality.<p>

It was also something that none of his fellow miners seemed to share. Sure, they were a mostly good-humored bunch, but they tended to get possessive over mining claims, which by nature made them isolationists. And when they went for weeks on end without much more than a couple nuggets to show for it, attitudes turned sour.

Only Cornelius shared his happiness, though he still hadn't found them much gold.

"I'm sure of it this time!" he'd exclaim, and would hack at the ground with the vigor of two men half his age until he proved that once again, there was no gold to be found. The "business proposition" he'd approached them about had been to team up and split whatever they found, sharing the profits as a three-man team. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, what with George still awed by Cornelius's "incredible gold-tasting talent," but it soon became quite obvious that Cornelius was only worth his muscle.

This pattern of not-finding continued for what seemed like forever (but in reality was only a few weeks), until one day Alfred gave up on Cornelius's digging sites, instead picking a spot in a creek that gave him a good feeling and starting to sift through the silt.

"Yeh'll never find anythin' with that pansy method," Cornelius declared adamantly. "Real men dig fer gold!"

As it turned out, neither the diggers nor Alfred standing knee-deep in water had yielded more than a few paltry flakes of stuff that looked reasonably golden. But they collected it daily in a small leather pouch that George kept in his pocket at all times, and steadily gathered enough to pay for meals but little else at the exorbitant San Francisco merchant prices.

"D'ya still have that job offer, Al?" George had asked after one particularly unfruitful day. "Because that looks like that's where the money is in this gig after all."

_V~-~-~V_

The air was crisp, with the last remnants of the morning fog slipping away over the mountains to the east. The San Francisco port, stretching from all along the inside edge of the peninsula, was bustling with activity, everyone seeming to have places to be, boxes to move, the crowd swelling like a high tide.

George was waving, despite the fact he was only a few feet from Alfred, as if making an effort to be seen as other people passed on all sides. "I'll meet ya back at the edge of town in a few hours, 'kay Al?"

"Just don't spend all of our money again. And Cornelius?"

"Yeh?"

"Don't let him out of your sight."

"HEY!"

The beefy man gave a sloppy salute. "Don't ye worry, Alfred Jones! I'll keep as good an eye on 'im as if he was me own!"

Alfred grinned as he watched Cornelius wrap his arm around George's much smaller one and half frog-marched him towards the main part of San Francisco, presumably to get more than a few drinks. Alfred might normally have joined them, but something about the port compelled him to be there.

So instead, he turned in the opposite direction, wandering downhill into the shipyards. He'd never quite gotten over his fascination with ports full of towering masts and billowing sails, or the ocean that stretched so far on either side of his land, even though he'd never been across one.

As he wandered through the docks, people rushing around him or jumping out of his way, the sight of an odd-looking ship stopped him in his tracks. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't one of the coal-powered ferries or classic European sailing ships, but something decidedly more… _foreign._

Stopping someone next to him, Alfred gestured at the strange boat. "What's that?"

The man followed his gaze, shifting the crate he carried as he responded, almost offhandedly, "That's just the Chinamen. There've been a whole lot of them around, lately, haven't you seen? They stick out like thoroughbreds in a pig pen, what with their braids and weird clothes."

He continued on his way, and Alfred was left wondering why he hadn't seen any of these "Chinamen" before. A new goal in mind, he turned towards the foreign boat and watched, fascinated, as a gangplank was lowered and people began descending.

A steamship belched black smoke into the sky as it pulled noisily into its dock, but the sight of it seemed to enrapture those watching as still more people came tumbling out of the Chinese ship.

Not fifty meters from Alfred's vantage point, Wang Yao wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It is so smelly. Too many people. So inefficient," he muttered to no one in particular as he descended to the dock of this new world, back straight and head held high as one of his Emperors had taught him long ago.

Wary of dilapidated peasant villages and their ancient constructions, Yao was hesitant to add any more weight to something that creaked. But this dock seemed sturdy enough, so he marched off in search of a purpose in this strange new place, eager to be anywhere but on that foul ship that he'd been stuck on for _weeks._

The steady sound of spoken Chinese trailed off into the background the further he went from the cluster of people he'd arrived with, morphing into the harsh, oddly accented English that the people of this region spoke.

Arthur had taught him English, so Yao knew his was impeccable. Clearly, these people were commoners. Their dress, too, left little to be wondered about their social status in life.

Folding his hands in his voluminous sleeves, Yao was acutely aware of the stares he was getting from all sides, but stood ramrod-straight and strode on, putting them beneath his notice in a manner proper for someone of his standing. _He_ was not a common working peasant, come to feed their family, he was simply bored and looking to get out of all those responsibilities his silly Emperor kept trying to force him into.

At least, so he told himself.

But regardless, he needed money, and more importantly, he needed food, and there probably were no pork buns anywhere nearby. So the first order of business in this new land was logically to find someone capable of getting him something edible, even if it wasn't as delicious as pork. Slipping through a crowd that didn't part for him like he was used to, Yao slowly made his way through the unfamiliar city, in search of an eating establishment of some sort.

Suddenly, he was knocked by a passing crate, and sent crashing into someone else, a someone else with very strong arms who succeeded in catching him.

"Woah there! Are you okay?"

Yao looked up (not very far, because as he told himself every day, he wasn't that short!) and met a pair of friendly blue eyes, which for some reason made him think of the sky, endless and lofty yet always there, all-encompassing yet _free_.

Yao blinked, momentarily puzzled why this man seemed so much like himself, because everyone _knew_ there wasn't a specific America, only North America, represented by a quiet boy who always insisted he was Canadian. Yet still…

The man (but, Yao corrected himself, he really wasn't much more than a teenager) abruptly flushed. "Oh, you probably don't speak English… stupid of me. Er… anyway..." Leaving it with that, he gave an awkwardly hesitant little wave and walked off, leaving Yao staring after him, wondering why he'd been so utterly blindsided by one blue-eyed American boy.

_V~-~-~V_

"—an' then Luce just started shriekin'—"

Alfred was laughing as George regaled him and Cornelius with a story involving his sister, three mice, Sam, and a dinner party for their father when his eye caught something crimson-colored to his left, until it was abruptly hidden as the bar patrons shifted.

They were at a pub of sorts, one that doubled as a restaurant before noon, spending what little money they had on provisions and a small meal for the three of them. George was always joking that he was the lightweight of the group, because Alfred ate just as much as Cornelius, even though he was half his size.

"—an' good ol' Pa—wait, where're ya goin', Al?"

Alfred didn't answer, but the crowd shifted again, and there was the red, actually a person, sitting cross-legged on a bench, a strangely thin pipe dangling from his lips.

At least, he was fairly certain, it was a he. The black ponytail and dressy… clothing-things did make him look rather feminine.

_This afternoon, at the port_. That was why he looked so familiar.

As Alfred approached, the man blew a calm smoke ring and cracked open an eye.

"Er… hello," he said, waving in a way he hoped conveyed friendliness.

The man blinked, looking momentarily surprised as his dark eyes widened. "Good evening," he finally said, almost thoughtfully.

That was unexpected, and it was Alfred's turn to be surprised. "Oh… so you do speak English? Are you, er, one of those Chinamen? I mean, you look foreign and all, with your clothes, and um, eyes…"

"I am Chinese, and you are American."

"Yeah… definitely American."

The man nodded sagely, and Alfred heard George and Cornelius come up behind him.

"Who're you?" George asked, scrutinizing the foreigner.

"Wang Yao," he answered bluntly. "I arrived today. Do you have food?"

George's suspicion vanished as he laughed. "I like this guy! Someone who doesn't beat aroun' the bush!"

Yao's brow furrowed, and he placed the pipe gently beside him. "Why would I attack shrubbery?"

Alfred and George laughed, which made Yao look even more confused, and he muttered something in Chinese.

"We don' 'ave any food, I'm afraid," Cornelius finally said, addressing Yao, who just heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"I should have guessed, aru."

"'Aru'?" George asked. "What in the name of biscuits an' gravy is an 'aru'?"

"Aru is aru!" Yao cried, jumping up. "What are 'biscuits and gravy'?!"

"Food!" George shot back.

"So you _do_ have food!" Yao exclaimed triumphantly.

"No, we don't! To buy food, ya need money, an' ta get money, we need ta find some gold, but all we've got is flakes!"

Yao brightened. "In that case, I can help! Chinese are very good workers!"

"Help? How do we know ya won't jus' run off with everythin'?"

"Chinese are honest workers, too!"

"Easy, George," Cornelius said, intervening with his more-than-minimal size. "We migh' as well get help."

Alfred nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it can't hurt to have another person."

At the sound of his voice, Yao turned, and met Alfred's eyes with something unreadable clouding his own. His dark eyebrows pinched ever so slightly, and Alfred had to look away from the intensity of the stare.

"Yes, I will come," Yao declared, finality in his voice. "You three are interesting, aru."

_V~-~-~V_

The three Americans soon found out that Yao hadn't done real physical work in a while. He wouldn't tell them just how long ago it had been, only that it was, "very, very long ago."

"The peasants do the hard work," he insisted. "My boss does not let me, and there are many important things to do." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Though sometimes they are boring."

He began as a hard a worker as he promised, speaking for days very little except in proverbs: "If one does not plow, there will be no harvest," was one of his favorites. But fairly soon, he announced that mining was also boring. "All you do is dig! What fun is that! When do we find gold?"

"When ya dig," George replied bitingly, "which ya clearly aren't doin'."

"My boss said gold was everywhere! Actually, he mostly didn't, but still! He lied!"

"Your boss is a righ' idiot," George added.

"He is," Yao answered sagely. "He killed his eldest son and started a war because he wouldn't let me be friends with _anybody _and he chased my little siblings away. But he is old, so soon I will have a new boss."

No one knew quite what to say to that, so their little camp grew quiet. Even Yao was working, expressing his distaste every few minutes for mud and rocks and various things in Chinese.

Until suddenly, his shovel dropped to the ground with a clatter, and Yao was off running. "Uwa! Cute!"

Alfred looked up from his position in the river in time to see Yao approach something small, furry, and monochrome.

"You are black and white, just like panda! But you are a little kitty… I will call you robber-kitty because you have a mask!"

"Yao, that's a raccoon! Don't touch it!"

"But it's so _cute!_" Yao replied, reaching out a hand to pet the small animal's head, when he abruptly jerked backwards. "_Aiyah!_ It _bit_ me!"

Immediately, Alfred was out of the water, because he'd seen people get sick from raccoon bites, especially raccoons out during the daytime, but by the time he got to Yao, the Chinese man looked no worse for wear, just upset.

"Are you okay?" Alfred asked, grabbing the wrist Yao was massaging, but he yanked it closer.

"I am fine, aru." He looked balefully into the bushes into which the raccoon had disappeared, hissing and spitting. "But do you have anything cute here that is not possessed by evil spirit?"

"Evil spirit…?" muttered Alfred, dropping Yao's hand, no bite marks to speak of.

"Yes, like robber-kitty and stinky-kitty."

"You mean that skunk you decided to pet two weeks ago?" The smell hadn't gone away for days, and George had been all for exiling Yao to a minimum forty feet from the camp.

Yao nodded. "Both are most definitely possessed by evil spirit. Kiku knows all about them."

"Who's Kiku?" George interjected, having dropped his own shovel to join them, never one to work when others weren't.

"My cute little brother who left me," Yao replied, abruptly taking on a despondent expression. "He thinks his land is so much better, because it's where the sun rises. Insulting! Sometimes, little siblings can be so troublesome, do you know?"

"I don't know… I loved my little sister," Alfred said quietly. Yao turned to him, that odd look once again on his face.

"You have a younger sister as well?"

George looked aghast. "Ya never told me that, Al! I thought we were pals here!"

"Her name was—is Emeline," Alfred continued. "I haven't seen her in a long time."

Yao patted his back sympathetically. "I certainly understand, Alfred Jones. I certainly do."

_V~-~-~V_

George decided that what he termed "the discovery of Yao" warranted celebration, and celebration meant food and drink beyond their current spending limits. Of course they'd needed to save a bit first, but Yao had agreed enthusiastically, eager to try, "strange New World eating-things."

Later that evening, Alfred found himself hauling a very tipsy George out of another bar, with Cornelius trailing behind. A young woman suddenly came hurrying out, holding a leather pouch.

"Oh, mister! You left this behind!"

Still distracted by George's dead weight, Alfred accepted the pouch with a quick thanks. The lady (very pretty indeed with a small mole to the right of her nose) turned and left, practically skipping down the street.

"Mmph… my money bag!" George said, grabbing for the pouch and missing. Alfred peeled it open, only to find it most definitely empty.

"You spent all of it! How many drinks did you buy?!"

"Mm… not tha' mush! We still 'ad… some money lef over. Righ', Corne'us?"

"We did," said the larger man, who still was reasonably sober. "Tha' young lady must've made off with it."

George waved a hand. "'Er? Naw, she was righ' nice. Kept buyin' me more drinks, 'n complementin' me on my han'kerchief… isn' tha' funny, Al? I don' 'ave a han'kerchief!"

Alfred sighed. "Never mind.

Yao, who was swaying ever so slightly, cried, "No, that is unacceptable! You are letting her take your money?! Chase her, surround her from all side, and get back the honorably-earned money of George!"

He was looking rather violent, so Alfred pointed out, "She's long gone by now, though. And we should get going too, if we want to get back to camp before dark."

They hadn't taken three steps when a shriek shattered the relative peace of the early San Francisco evening.

Alfred practically threw George's limp form at Cornelius, who caught him without much more than a slight _oof_ and Alfred was off and running, not caring who or what the shriek came from, only knowing that saving them was the most important thing.

Another shriek lead him to an alley, a dark sliver between two wooden buildings, dirt-paved and damp and the source of the noise: a small figure, backed up against a wall, a larger figure before them.

"C'mon, I know yeh've got money. I seen yeh steal it from righ' under that fella's nose. Jus' hand it over—"

Alfred reacted without thinking, because that was someone in danger, and no matter what they might have done, he didn't just let people get hurt. He dove, catching the larger figure around the waist, using the strength he knew he possessed but always tried to control to slam the man into the ground, barely hearing the resounding _crack_ as they landed.

And then Yao was pulling him up, hissing in his ear, "_What were you thinking?! Idiotic, impulsive, young—_" and Yao was bending down, trying to check the man on the ground for vital signs, but the man was already sitting up, looking panicked and scrambling away and George and Cornelius were shouting questions from the mouth of the alley—

And Alfred turned, looked down to where the smaller figure, the young lady with the mole to the right of her nose, and helped her up.

"Are you all right?"

The young lady appeared to be shaking, but quickly composed herself. "I am just fine, thank you," she said, and attempted to pocket the pouch in her hand, but Yao grabbed her wrist.

"I believe you have a possession that belong to George." He waved a crimson-sleeved arm in the direction of the younger Catron, who had regained some of his own composure, enough to stand straight.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"I think not," Yao interjected, still holding her wrist. "Your name is what, young miss?"

"And why," she asked, sniffing, "should I tell you?"

"Because you owe your safety from that man to Alfred," Yao said simply, "however _stupid_ he was being."

The girl turned, her eyes meeting Alfred's. She nodded her head, the barest jerk of a movement. "Then thank you, Alfred," she said, but quieter now. She paused, then nodded again, as if deciding on something. "My name is Olive Rush. I'm pleased to meet you."

Yao was giving Alfred that strange look again, but Alfred chose to ignore it. "Alfred F. Jones, at your service, Miss Rush!"

Olive gave a tiny smile, but Yao was back to business. "George's money?"

"Oh, yes, well…" she paused again, then pulled it out of her sleeve. "Here," she said, almost sheepishly handing the coins over to George. "It wasn't much anyway," she muttered. "Not worth the trouble."

"If the wind comes from an empty cave, it is not without a reason," Yao proclaimed, nodding wisely as he folded his arms in his sleeves again. "Worry not, Rush-_xiaojie_. You and your many stolen goods are safe with us."

Olive spun on her heel to face Yao. "How…?"

"You are, as Arthur would say, a 'lady thief,' yes?"

"How can you prove such an accusation?"

"I am sure you have many goods from such gullible people as George on your person at this moment, Rush-_xiaojie._ But such encounters," he glanced at Alfred, "however _impulsively _initiated, have a purpose, would you agree?"

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>More China, so yay!<p>

As an estimate, this Gold Rush thing will probably go for one or two chapters more, depending. Then we'll move forth to the Civil War.

And for history...  
>Most miners in California made very little money. Gold sold for $19 an ounce, but the shopkeepers could sell things for ridiculous prices, and it was really they who made the money in the end.<br>The "Chinamen" were at first welcomed in San Francisco, because they did the jobs no one else wanted to do for much lower pay. They were hard, industrious workers and carved out a successful lifestyle as a minority in San Francisco, though they (for the most part) refused to change their style of dress from the loose-sleeved shirts and the tight braids or learn English beyond enough to get by. This appearance (Qing Dynasty, Manchurian-influenced) is where the traditional stereotypical Chinese image in America today comes from. San Francisco's Chinatown was also originally right on the water, but when the population grew, people began filling in the San Francisco Bay, and today Chinatown is several blocks away from the water's edge.

As for the minimal Chinese Yao speaks, he calls Olive "Rush-_xiaojie," _which just means Miss Rush, or almost literally, little lady Rush.

On a side note, the "stinky kitty" is actually a real family story, as told by my first-cousin-once-removed-in-law (I keep in touch with a very large extended family).

There should be more history-oriented things next chapter. Sorry for the lack of it here, but I hope you enjoyed anyway! As always, if you have questions or comments, don't hesitate to leave a review, and I'll see you next time!


	24. Gold Rush: Part II

Haha! I have returned!  
>You probably thought I'd left forever.<p>

In all seriousness, though, I am sorry for taking this long.

Thanks a whole lot to ninja82, . .Xx, In The Mix, Ember Hinote, skyspottedshadow, seenlee93, SamanthaMeloes, Miss Transylvania, Draconian Droog, RasalynnLynx, MyJen, Aquarius-Otter, Amelia Letter, Petaltailify97, TarrelYoukai, and three times to Rosy the Cat for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Illusion Island, AngelikDevil, TheMultiFandomner, Ixion26, jayfeather63, Redmobile, bookishangel, Dragoonmega06, JAGartist, yeah9fun, Anime-VGsUltimate00, and again to . .Xx, Amelia Letter, TarrelYoukai, and Rosy the Cat for your favorites and alerts!<p>

Now on with this long-overdue, midnight-on-a-Wednesday update!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Wáng-qiánbèi!<em>"

Yao glanced up from his work, wiping his brow his forearm. "Ah! Lĭ-xiānsheng!" he exclaimed in reply, brightening instantly at the sight of another Chinese miner a short distance away. His shovel dropped and he was off, chattering excitedly in Chinese the other man, who was equally enthusiastic with his replies.

George, watching the scene with some curiosity, turned away. "Whaddaya say to a break, Al? Least 'till Yao gets back."

Alfred nodded in agreement, dropping his ban on the riverbank and sloshing his way to the shade of a nearby tree. George quickly followed suit.

"Where's Cornelius?" Alfred asked, missing the large miner's presence.

"Off in town with Olive," George replied, and Alfred could have sworn his face softened ever so slightly as he said it, but George was back to normal so fast, he wasn't entirely sure it had happened. "Wanted to get some taters or somethin'."

"He'd better hurry back," Alfred muttered. "We're not getting much done without him."

His friend nodded in agreement. "We'd get more done if Yao didn' keep seein' people he knows every five minutes."

"It's been at least a half-hour since the last one."

"Miracle if I ever seen one."

Alfred studied the two men speaking to Yao (when had the second arrived?), and for the first time really _noticed_ the differences between Yao and these two. Sure, he wore the same wide-sleeved tunic and pants they did, but his hair was barely past his shoulders, and pulled into a neat ponytail. Their heads were shaved except for a small circle, from which a long black braid wound down their backs, and their slippers were oddly curled.

In fact, most of the Chinese men Alfred had seen looked like them, not like Yao.

Yao looked like he was wrapping up by the way the two men he was talking to by the way all three were giving spastic little bows in each others' direction.

"Back to work, then," George sighed, heaving himself up from the shady grass.

Yao was grinning ear to ear as he turned away, returning to their camp much happier than he had been.

"Who're they?" Alfred asked, watching the pair of backs disappear into the nearby trees, braids swishing lightly behind them.

"Mr. Li and friend," Yao answered, still grinning. "They were wondering if there were any recently left plots near here they can look at."

"Recen'ly abandoned?" George asked quizzically. "Why?"

"You white men don't like it when we take unused plots," Yao said matter-of-factly. "We just want to get along, so most take used plots and find leftovers with famous Chinese carefulness that white men do not see."

"What can ya buy with leftovers?" George wondered. "Stuff here is so expensive."

"Not in China, aru! There, most people are poor, especially southeast farmers. Lĭ-xiānsheng has wife and four children who need money he makes here. So though he cannot buy much, they can buy lots."

"Do you have a family you send money to?" Alfred asked. "You said you had a brother."

Yao's remaining smile dropped away. "No. I once had more siblings, but they all left. It is very sad." He continued, muttering angrily in Chinese, punctuated briefly with something that sounded like _Arthur._

Alfred glanced at George. Clearly, family was something of a sore subject.

"Then… why did you come here?"

Yao visibly perked up a bit. "I was bored! My stupid boss kept telling me stupid things like, _go meet the delegates, Wang, _or _cease those plebian actions, Wang, _or _no, we can't have a giraffe parade, Wang._ So I decided America would be much more fun than _him_, even though he says, _China had everything it needs, Wang._ But no giraffes! Have you seen giraffe ever, Alfred Jones?"

"N-no, I can't say I have." He didn't add that he had no idea what a giraffe was.

"I seen one at a circus once," George added.

"Aren't they so _cute_, aru?!" Yao cried. "I want a pet giraffe, but I think Panda would get jealous."

_V~-~-~V_

Walking through what had quickly morphed into "downtown" San Francisco on their way to their favorite dinner place, George suddenly stopped.

"Hey, Al. Ya know, we eat here all the time. Whaddaya say to tryin' somethin' new?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Do you actually _know _of another place that serves pot pies in this area? Because I only get pot pies once a week and I was planning on eating one."

"C'mon… ya can give up pot pies for one week, Al."

Alfred rapped his knuckles on George's forehead. "Hellooo? Is George there? I know for a fact you have a soft spot for their mashed potatoes!"

"You do not need to resort to violence, Alfred Jones," Yao said calmly, "I shall compromise."

"You will?" Alfred was rather skeptical.

"Indeed. We shall wait for Cornelius and Rush-_xi__ǎ__ojiě_, and then settle this matter with a match of _shouxiling_."

"Show-what?" George asked.

"It is a hand game, in which two people choose one of three things: a fist, a flat hand, or two fingers." At the sight of their still-confused expressions, Yao exclaimed incredulously, "You do not know _shouxiling?"_

Alfred shook his head. "Never heard of it."

"Me neither."

At that moment, Cornelius and Olive came up beside the little group. "What's the holdup?" Cornelius boomed.

Yao immediately launched into an explanation of their restaurant debate and _shouxiling_, while Alfred was infinitely more concerned with what Olive was carrying.

"What is all _that?_"

Olive sniffed. "Your food for the next week, Alfred, as well as a few other necessities."

Alfred picked up a dress sleeve dangling from the pile. "How is this a necessity?"

"I cannot be seen wearing the same dress all days of the week, Alfred."

"Who's going to see you?"

Olive blushed faintly, the quickly shook her head. "It's none of your concern. George?"

"Yes?"

"Carry this parasol, it's about to slip away and I would rather it not get dusty."

"Certainly. Right away." George grabbed the parasol from the top of the pile and tucked it under his arm. He paused briefly, then added, "Anything else ya want me to carry? It's lookin' awful heavy."

"I can manage, but thank you."

"Where did you even _get_ a parasol?" Alfred asked.

"There was a lovely carriage passing by with the unfortunate feature of an additional storage bin affixed to the back of the vehicle, and it happened to be sitting atop a trunk there."

"You _stole _it?"

Olive raised a carefully designed eyebrow. "You seem surprised. You really shouldn't be."

Alfred was about to explain to her exactly _why_ he should, in fact, be worried about this thieving habit-profession she had, but Yao interrupted him.

"You too do not know _shouxiling?!_ What you Americans do to settle fights?"

Cornelius rubbed the back of his neck, glancing sideways at George and Alfred. "Er… we usually jest punch who's we're arguin' with, I guess."

"So _barbaric_, aru!" Yao cried, throwing up his hands. "This fight, we will settle civilized way! George, put down your stupid umbrella, you need two hands."

George handed off the parasol to Cornelius, albeit sheepishly, watching Olive's face almost anxiously as he did so. She sniffed and looked away.

"Now, when I say _three_, you make one of three hand gestures, yes?"

"Right…" said Alfred, still rather unsure of this whole thing.

"Okay… _yī, èr, sān!"_

George glanced at Alfred, accurately expressing their mutual confusion. "Er… English, please, Yao."

"You do not understand numbers?!"

"English, please."

"Fine. Stupid Americans." Yao heaved a long-suffering sigh. "One, two, three!"

Alfred quickly made the first hand gesture that came to mind, the flat palm. George was a bit slower to respond, but he settled for the two fingers. Neither was quite sure what happened next.

"So… who won?"

Yao studied their hands for what seemed like an exaggerated length of time. "Alfred Jones, you have chosen cloth, and George has chosen scissors. So, George wins, and to new place of eating we go!"

George whooped. "All right folks, ya heard the wise Chinese guy! Let's get goin'!"

"Hey, wait a minute! I wouldn't have chosen the flat hand if I knew it was _cloth!_"

"If you had chosen fist, you would have won. Now come, we must go to George's victory celebration."

_V~-~-~V_

At the first restaurant they'd found that served pot pies, the proprietor was already glaring at them from the door.

"You four're fine," he said gruffly, "but I don' serve coolies."

Almost the same thing happened at the next two, prompting Alfred to engage in a shouting match with the owners, calling their honor and American pride into question as he defended Yao.

"It's the land of the _free_, you clueless moron! Everyone's equal under the great American flag! We're a country _built_ on immigrants, and I didn't see you complaining when the Chinese first arrived! Remember Governor McDougal? He called them 'one of the most worthy of our newly adopted citizens!' Remember that?"

But nobody would listen, and Alfred found doors slammed in his face.

At the fourth, Alfred was about to launch the argument he'd gotten into with the previous two proprietors again, but Olive yanked him away. "This establishment does not deserve our business if they shan't serve our friends," she snapped, glaring pointedly at the shopkeeper, who shrugged.

"I ain't losin' my business over one coolie, ma'am," he said, sounding almost apologetic. After all, anyone just looking at Cornelius could tell they were in for a big profit.

"_California for the Americans!_" someone called from within.

Yao had adopted what Alfred called his royal pose, straight-backed and cold-eyed, not twitching a muscle as the door slammed before them.

"He can't do that!" Alfred burst, seething. "_They_ can't do that! Just because Yao's foreign!"

"Indeed they can, and they shall, until they get over their idiotic prejudices and foolish notions!" Olive replied, equally incensed. "You cannot change the opinion of a population in an evening, Alfred Jones!"

Alfred hoped that would be the last their group would hear of the issue, but the anti-Chinese sentiment was soon spreading rapidly through San Francisco, and that one voice's rallying cry was taken up by nearly everyone. The Chinese weren't the only targets either; the French, Mexicans, and Chileans too were receiving their share of hate.

Alfred had just about had it when a group of three men tried to take over their claim because Yao was on watch duty.

"Whatcha gonna do, coolie?" one sneered. "You shouldn't even be here."

Hearing the start of a commotion, Alfred arrived at Yao's side, George and Olive following close behind.

"Actually, this is _our_ claim," Alfred said, glaring at the three. "We've been here a week already. You're trespassing."

"Well, what're two country bumpkins, a coolie, and a little lady gonna do about?"

The scene quickly turned out to be one of Cornelius's finest moments, as he chose that instant to barge his way into the clearing. "What's all this, Alfred?" The intruders paled rapidly at the sight of Cornelius, whose size truly did rival the local bears.

"N-nothin', we was jest leavin'," the third man said, grabbing his friend's arm. The three disappeared, but though they were the first, they certainly weren't the last.

"What do they think _kùlì_ is anyway?" Yao wondered aloud. "They say it like an insult, but it is just worker."

_V~-~-~V_

A few days later, Yao was off visiting some friend of his at the local laundry and Cornelius was buying a new pick after he'd broken the latest one throwing it at a boulder. As a result, Alfred and George were escorting Olive on her latest round of "shopping."

George had gotten saddled with most of Olive's newfound possessions, legally and illegally obtained, but he seemed all-too-happy to carry more. Alfred, who probably could have picked up all of the stuff plus both George and Olive, had only a picnic basket (food included) dangling from one arm.

After George allowed Olive to throw three yards of flowery fabric around his neck, Alfred decided to ask the question that had been bothering him for a while. "Say, George. Do you like Olive?"

George tripped, and would have spilled everything if Alfred hadn't hauled him upright by his collar at the last moment. "W-what gives ya that idea?" Alfred looked pointedly at the flowery cloth, three lace doilies, and yet another parasol that were prominently displayed at the top of George's stack.

"You do."

"I didn' say I didn', but I don't!"

"You do."

Glancing about, George quickly asked, "How 'bout we settle this with that game o' Yao's? Show-shilling?"

"You need two hands for that, and right now, you have none. If you haven't noticed, you're carrying all of _Olive's_ things."

"So're you!"

Alfred lazily dangled the picnic basket in front of George's face, before adding it to his pile. "And now I'm not."

"Fine," George huffed. "Ya win. I do like her, awright?"

"Is our friend George having relationship troubles, aru?"

George whipped around. "_Yao?!"_

The Chinese man folded his arms together, obscuring them in his voluminous sleeves once again, a gesture Alfred had begun to associate with the giving of advice Yao thought wise. "Indeed, you are. Chinese have much relationship wisdom."

"So ya say," George snorted. "Ya also said that Chinese were focused and careful, and you're neither of _those_."

"No, no, this is true!" Yao declared. "You listen to your Yao-_gē_, and he will tell you everything. First, you must learn to address your beloved appropriately, then you must wear the proper colors and eat the proper food, and also give her many gifts—"

"George? Be a dear and carry this handkerchief too." Olive reappeared, tucking the handkerchief between the fabric and the parasol. The self-proclaimed most elegant lady thief this side of the Mississippi tilted her head inquisitively. "What were you talking about just now?"

"I was just imparting wise Chinese advice on rela—"

"You know what, Olive?" George suddenly exclaimed. "Half o' this stuff is stolen, and I'm no thief, so I'm not carryin' none o' this." With an unceremonious _thump_, all of Olive's freshly found things went tumbling into the road.

Olive stared downwards, eyes widening. Then her head snapped up, eyes locked into a fierce glare. "George Catron, what on _earth—_"

"And ya know why I'm not carryin' it?" George plunged on. "Because I don' wanna see ya have to steal things anymore! I'm gonna buy all of it for ya, 'cause we're gonna make heaps o' money with this gold minin' thing, and then I can get ya every single _damn_ parasol and embroidered handkerchief on the planet until you're the happiest woman alive, got that?!"

Olive's mouth dropped open, and Alfred realized he was mirroring her expression.

"Really, George? You do mean that?"

George, who seemed to have expended all of his words, nodded dumbly.

Olive's shock morphed into a tiny smile. "I would like that."

While Alfred was still busy being astonished, Yao was muttering angrily beside him. "That is not proper courting procedure at all, aru!"

_V~-~-~V_

Their camp had a generally more positive atmosphere after George's declaration in the middle of the streets of San Francisco. Even Cornelius had a bit of a spring in his step. Yao was the only one less than purely happy, still disgruntled as he was that his advice had been poorly followed.

But another ordinary two weeks passed uneventfully, though the influx of strange objects Olive "found" did decrease substantially. It was on the third week that the extraordinary struck.

"There's gold here, I can taste it!"

"Ya always say that, Cornelius," George muttered. "Ya say that three times a day, some days. And I swear we are the _last_ prospectors ta find _anythin'_."

"That's a-gonna change, I know it!" the mountain of a man declared as he began to dig with renewed vigor. "Al, grab tha' other pick an' help! Time fer ya t'do some _real_ minin'!"

Reluctantly, Alfred set aside his pan, the source of their real steady income, and grabbed the mostly-broken pick Cornelius had gestured to. Careful to watch the force he exerted, he too began digging, clawing away at the ground while George and Yao shoveled the excess dirt out of the whole that was rapidly forming.

After an hour of no luck, Cornelius ordered everyone out of the hole. "I gots ta have an un-con-tamin-ated environmen' fer this ta work."

And so he went, stabbing the ground with his pick, giving it the occasional taste, until finally, his eyes brightened. "I found it! Git down here, Al!" He began scraping away at one wall of their hole, joined quickly by Alfred, until abruptly, one of the clods Alfred unearthed was a little more golden than brown.

George nabbed it, holding it up for inspection, brushing it off almost reverently as everyone froze. Setting it down on the ground, he gave a sudden _stomp_—

And the clod, instead of disintegrating, formed a flat yellow circle in the dirt of their hole.

"Quick," George said, staring at the hole in their pit's wall. "Dig."

The three of them together started attacking the wall, until they were unearthing clod after clod. When the floor of their pit was covered with a mixture of dirt and beautiful, glorious golden clods, Yao started sorting, brushing the dirt away.

Holding out an armful of shining nuggets, he cried, "It is _all_ gold!"

"_YES!" _George cheered, Olive clapped from the mouth of the pit, Yao clung to the golden rocks as Alfred plucked one from his arms, cupping it in his palms, and Cornelius was quietly sniffling, hugging his pick to his burly chest.

"I did it…" he muttered, "I really did it. I found gold."

"We knew you would eventually," Alfred said, handing the gold back to Yao and clapping Cornelius on the arm, grinning ear to ear. "After all, everyone else in California has; why not us?"

George practically vaulted out of the pit to scoop up Olive in his arms, who promptly gave him a quick kiss. Yao, who was jumping up and down, gold spilling over, exclaimed,

"I can finally make my boss have another giraffe parade!"

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>So. History and explaining first.<p>

I have decided to use tone marks for Chinese after all. I didn't last chapter, but it bothered me.  
>As for Chinese words, <em>qiánbèi<em> (pronounced chien-bay) is an honorific (like Mr or Miss) for your elder or someone in the same profession with seniority over you. I thought that, since Yao fit both descriptions, it was a good choice.  
><em>Xiānsheng <em>(pronounced shien-shung) is a more commonplace honorific meaning Mr (in this case, Mr. Li).  
><em>Kùlì<em> (pronounced coo-lee; I guessed on the tone marks for this one) is a word for someone of the working class. It wasn't derogatory in Chinese, but since that's what all the workers were calling themselves, the Americans Americanized it and eventually turned it into an insult.  
>As for the difference in Yao and the other Chinese men's appearance: the stereotypical Chinese image at the time was the long braid on a mostly-bald head, the curly shoes, tunic, and slightly puffy pants. This style of dress is indicative of the Manchurian-ruled dynasty in China, because the Manchus brought their clothing to China when they invaded. But I just couldn't imagine Yao cutting his hair.<br>The Chinese were very unobtrusive immigrants, doing the menial labor that no one else wanted to do for fair wages. They even mined on used plots, picking up the gold dust left behind that to them represented unparalleled riches. Most of their money was sent home to starving families, because most of the Chinese immigrants came from the southwest of China, an already-poor area devastated shortly after this chapter takes place by the Taiping rebellion. It was only when the gold ran out and money grew scarce that the Americans began to accuse all foreigners of stealing rightfully American jobs and chasing them out. The Chinese demographic, however, was too huge and expensive to get rid of, so the Americans resorted to politically making their lives as hard as possible.  
>Rock-paper-scissors, or <em>shouxiling<em>, was invented in China, shortly after gaining huge popularity in Japan. In the original version, what we know as paper was cloth. It didn't gain popularity in Europe and America until the 1920s, so we can safely say this was the first game ever played in America.  
>Claims were open to everyone if you didn't have someone there at all times watching it. Here, the men challenge Yao because the Americans tended (as mentioned already) to not like Chinese miners.<br>I totally made up Yao's "proper courting procedures."  
>And that giraffe? I mentioned it before, but shortly after Chinese trading ships discovered Africa, they brought back all the weird and exotic animals to put on parade at the palace, and the favorite attraction was the giraffe.<p>

Next chapter, we'll be leaving Gold Rush California for bigger and better things with less comic relief (probably).

And for those of you who read this far, I'm writing a Thanksgiving omake in honor of American Thanksgiving (which is technically today, because it's 12:37 am my time right now). To you, I present a choice: should I use "thee" and "thou", etc, in speech for technical accuracy, or "you" for ease of reading?

Thanks for reading this chapter, and as always, any questions or comments are always appreciated in a review!

And to all of you Americans, have a happy Thanksgiving (and eat lots and lots of food)!


	25. Thanksgiving Omake

Wow, that was fast!

If you were thinking that, I respond with, "Nope! This is just an omake, sorry!"  
>I apologize for the length of time it took to get that last chapter up, and as a reward for waiting so long and continuing to give such wonderful positive feedback and suggestions in all your reviews, I give you a second update in 24 hours!<p>

And thus, I now present the Thanksgiving Omake for your reading pleasure. Please note that it has nothing to do with the plot of the real story, and takes place much, much earlier.

Enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

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><p>The light filtering through the forest trees had changed, and the Mother of all the native tribes was getting worried. She shifted on her bare feet, looking towards the edge of the Wampanoag village for some sign of a little yellow-haired head amongst the bustling people.<p>

"_Nitka?_"

The woman turned as her son exited a nearby oval house, one of many in the small clearing.

"What is bothering you?" he asked. "Today is our festival day with the Englishmen. You should not be so troubled."

"Mukki hasn't come back."

Her elder son, the Wampanoag tribe in the flesh, scrunched his brow, having met her youngest child only once the previous day. "The small yellow-haired one?" he asked, looking puzzled. "Where would he go?"

"To play," she replied, waving an arm at the surrounding woods. "I told him to return when the sun reached below the treetops." She sighed. "It would not be the first time he hasn't listened."

Turning back to her son, she smiled, deciding not to worry. In these lands, her children were always safe. "Now tell me, what are the circumstances of these white men you spoke of?"

_V~-~-~V_

Not terribly far away, there was an equally bustling village, though that was just about the only similarity between the two. Here, people weren't barefoot and dark-skinned, but sunburnt beneath their hats and wearing far too many layers of clothing for the sunny weather. While the shade of tall fir trees cooled the Wampanoag village, these people had clear-cut the nearby trees, forming a large, dusty spot where they chose to live. And on this particular day, delicious smells wafted up from the pots cooking outside just about every one of the tiny wooden houses that made up the small settlement known as Plymouth.

Charity was one of the many women entrusted with the task of making all of the food, tremendous amount that it was, for the harvest feast the menfolk had decided to put on. It was a frazzling job by herself to bake bread, steam squash, and cook corn all at once, but she was glad she wasn't among those cooking seafood. She honestly had never figured out what to do with a mussel to make such a thing edible.

Most of the others had children to help out, but Charity's were long grown up, leaving her house so silent that she was always trying to fill it with sound, and empty void that refused to be quelled. It grew only worse after her husband had passed away during the terrible winter that only two thirds of their small population had survived.

She hadn't felt truly warm since.

But she was determined to make it through and ensure the success of their tiny, finally free, pilgrim settlement, and if that meant cooking food for their men in Plymouth Plantation, then cook she would.

But the heat in her small house was downright unbearable with a fire in the hearth at midday. Sometimes, she almost missed England, with its nigh-perpetual rainy season that cooled the earth to a livable temperature. She bustled out as fast as she could after checking on the bread, only to find her corn disappearing over the edge of the table she'd put in her front yard. Puzzled, she peered around it, only to find a tiny blond boy with an armload of vegetables.

He froze, looking up at her with wide blue eyes from a face covered in dust, and something made her pause. This boy, somehow, meant a lot, more than a lot. Leaving England behind, the last harsh winter, and the survival of their little colony; somehow, this one little boy seemed to encompass all of that, with his blue eyes as clear as the unclouded October sky above.

She blinked, and the feeling was gone, leaving just another lost boy in its wake. Swiftly, Charity reached over and picked him up by the collar of his shirt. She was about to reprimand him when she took in his entire appearance for the first time.

"Merciful heavens, child, you're absolutely filthy! And what _are_ you wearing?"

The boy blinked uncomprehendingly, then began to squirm in her grasp, but it was an exercise in futility. Charity hadn't raised three children and not learned anything, after all.

One by one, she began to wrest the vegetables from his arms (something surprisingly difficult, because this boy was rather strong for his size) until he was clutching a single ear of corn to his chest. His stubborn expression was familiar, but his clothes certainly weren't: a tiny (what looked strangely like deerskin) tunic… or something, and a string with a wooden pendant around his neck were all he wore. Certainly nothing any sensible Puritan mother would let her son run about the village in.

"Playing Indian is amusing, I'm sure," Charity said skeptically, "but it certainly does not allow you to steal other peoples' vegetables!" The boy still didn't respond, but his expression turned vaguely sheepish at her chastising. "Who are your parents, child?"

Again, uncomprehending. Charity's brow furrowed; did he truly not understand, or was he just being difficult? Or perhaps too young?

Trying again, she asked, "What is your name?"

No response from the boy. Finally, tapping her chest with her free hand, she said, "I am Charity." She poked him. "You are?"

The boy, surprisingly, grinned. "Mukki!"

That was too odd to be a real name, so Charity decided to assume it was a pet name of sorts. "Mukki?" she asked. The boy nodded, grinning even wider.

"What an odd child," she muttered, more to herself than anyone, because the boy seemed to understand very little of what she said. Her musings were interrupted as a foul smell suddenly reached her nostrils.

"Mercy, the bread!" she cried, hauling Mukki behind her as she hurried into her house, quickly pulling the loaves from the oven. Studying them, she heaved a sigh of relief when they proved to not be _too_ badly burnt.

"See what you have brought me?" she groused in the direction of the boy. The boy, though, was staring in absolute fascination at the walls of her cabin. "Have you never seen a house before?" Charity inquired, setting the boy down.

Immediately, he ran over to her bed, the one stuffed with straw, and bounced on it. He started giggling, touching everything from the pillow to the quilts she'd made herself to the wooden bedposts.

Abruptly, he leapt off, racing outside again, with Charity following at a more sedate pace. He poked his nose into the cooking pot, getting a face full of steam as he did so, then grabbed the wooden spoon and started rapping it against the pot's side.

Charity snatched up the spoon, and quickly stirred the vegetables. "We do not touch things which are not ours to touch, child," she said sternly, but as soon as she put the spoon down, the boy had it in his hands again. But this time, he seemed to be trying to mimic her motions, sending water sloshing over the edges of the pot as he did so.

Inspiration struck. "Oh, so you wish to help?"

The boy said nothing, but Charity took that as agreement. Grabbing a bucket, she scooped a bit of water out of the pot, and gestured at the boy. "Water? Can you fetch some more?" She pointed in the direction of the well and gave him the wooden bucket. After a moment of confusion, understanding seemed to dawn on the boy's face, and he was off and running.

Charity sighed as he watched his tiny back disappear into the bustling crowd. "I do hope he brings back the bucket."

_V~-~-~V_

Few seemed to notice or pay attention to the little oddly-clothed boy as he flitted through the crowds, tripping occasionally on his small feet, but he found the well with little problem. Peering inside, he realized that this must be where the water is kept, and with little effort on his part, he dropped his bucket in and hauled it back up using the rope nearby.

He didn't notice the gaze of one incredulous man as he ran off, carrying the water like it was nothing in a display of truly disproportionate strength.

Charity was honestly surprised to no end when the boy actually completed the task. Hands on her hips, she studied him as he set the bucket down, looking up at her for approval.

"Well I never," she muttered, then ruffled his blond hair, noting the odd cowlick that stuck straight up in the front. "Well done, Mukki."

The boy smiled again, and Charity sent him for more water.

She managed to keep him occupied with little tasks, only scolding him once when he tried to steal a neighbor's pumpkin, and every smile he gave her upon completion made her feel just a little lighter. The hour of the feast had almost arrived, and Charity decided that it was her duty to make sure that this little boy didn't make a shame of his parents, however irresponsible they might be for not finding him yet.

So she sent him off to find more water, until the wash basin was filled to the brim. Then she grabbed him and threw him in, clothes and all.

He let out a loud squawk, splashing water across Charity's apron. "Hush, child. This is called a _bath, _something you are desperately in need of." The boy continued to squirm as she scrubbed the dirt away, revealing fair skin bronzed by the sun, rather than reddened like most people she knew who spent too long out-of-doors. The filthy clothes were discarded, though the boy wouldn't let her take off his necklace, and Charity scrubbed until the water was a frothy brown.

"Stay here," she commanded, and the boy actually did as he was told. She made her way over to a trunk in the corner of her house, where she kept all of the old things she never used anymore. At the very bottom was where she found the object of her search: white children's undergarments, a plain white play-skirt, and a red ribbon for the neck.

From the tub, the boy studied it curiously. Charity pulled him from the water and dressed him with experienced efficiency, then ran a brush through his tangled blond hair. The end product was almost unrecognizable.

"You look almost presentable now, child," she said, nodding her approval.

Mukki looked rather confused, plucking at the edge of the skirt with a tentative hand, but in the end, he seemed to approve, smiling broadly at Charity again.

"I am glad we agree," she added, giving the little boy a smile of her own. "Now come, assist me in carrying our food to the feast."

She didn't think the boy could manage both baskets of squash at once, but he lifted them with ease despite not being able to see over the top. Charity shook her head in amazement, and grabbed the bread and corn, then marched off purposefully in the direction that more and more of her neighbors were heading, Mukki following behind.

_V~-~-~V_

They arrived at a large space, just within the boundary of Plymouth, beside the fields the Wampanoag had helped them cultivate. The food, representing the first bountiful harvest in this New World, was already being laid out. Glancing down, Charity could almost see her temporary charge drooling.

Once the village had gathered, the men sat down together at one table, all the important colonial leaders at one, and the rest spread out. The women and children stood off to the side, ready with food, and the feast began. Some of the men performed an arms demonstration, shooting off their muskets to the delight of the crowd.

Charity procured some food for herself and Mukki, but she found he already had snatched an armload and was devouring it at a rather incredible speed.

"Stop that at once!" she cried, snatching the bread he was about to put in his mouth. "I am positive that you will choke!"

The child pouted for a moment, then abruptly brightened at something behind her. "_Nihshans!_" he exclaimed, pointing.

Turning, Charity was surprised to see a large group of local Indian men, standing, rather confusedly, at the edge of their camp. But that didn't explain what the child had said. Looking back toward Mukki, she replied, "No, that is the chief." She gestured at the man leading the group. "I believe his name is Massasoit."

To her surprise, the boy nodded eagerly. "Massasoit!" he agreed, pointing at the Wampanoag chief. "Tisquantum!" he continued, pointing to another man. Then, pointing to the first man he'd indicated, he declared, "Nihshans!"

"That's correct," Charity replied, still amazed at this little boy. "But I do not know this Nihshans."

"Mahta," the boy said, looking upset now. "_Nihshans._"

Suddenly, several of the Wampanoag men turned and left, while the rest filed into the crowd of pilgrims and sat down to begin eating.

"It seems we have invited them to join us," Charity said quietly, and indeed that's what had happened. The men who had left returned shortly after with five deer and even more of their villagers, including just one woman.

Charity turned to see if Mukki knew who this woman was, but the little boy tore past her, leaving the rest of his food behind, with a cry of, "_Nek!"_

She was about to follow him, to bring him back, to tell him that this was where he belonged, with her and her neighbors, not the Indians, but stopped as the woman bent down to embrace the little boy, lifting him up in her arms.

"Goodness gracious," Charity whispered, as the little boy who wouldn't say two words to her began chatting animatedly with the Indian woman.

And all of a sudden, he was pointing towards her, and the woman was walking over, carrying him still. She stopped just in front of Charity, smiling broadly.

"Thank you," she said, her accent thick, "for helping my son."

Charity felt like she should be shocked, but somehow, she wasn't very surprised at all. "You are quite welcome," she replied. The woman said something to Mukki, and he jumped down from her arms. He stepped shyly forward, looking up at Charity with those clear blue eyes.

"Thank you," he said, uncertainty filling his voice, his accent just as thick, and Charity couldn't help but smile.

"You too are quite welcome," she replied, kneeling down to the child's eye level. And she'd never felt warmer than when that little boy reached forward and threw his arms around her neck, the sounds of what became known as the first Thanksgiving floating around her, fresh and bright as this new land.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So, for all of you lovely readers, I present The Eternal American's version of the First Thanksgiving.<p>

Some history too (of Thanksgiving celebrations in general, not just American):  
>England, back in the days of the English Reformation during the reign of King Henry VIII, the number of church holidays was cut from 95 holidays and 52 Sundays (on which people didn't work and had to attend church) to just 27 holidays. But the Puritans (the radical reformers of 16th century England) wanted to get rid of all the church holidays, even Christmas and Easter, and replace them with specially called days called Days of Fasting or Days of Thanksgiving.<br>One of these Days of Thanksgiving was called after the failure of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, and eventually morphed into Guy Fawkes Day.  
>(Now for the American part)<br>The settlers who made Plymouth Plantation were none other than various pilgrims (mostly Puritans) fleeing England's religious persecution and holidays in the New World. Plymouth Plantation is today a living history museum in Plymouth, Massachusetts.  
>Their first winter was terrible, because only about half of their houses were built, and no one had any food or previous knowledge of American weather patterns, so about a third of the (very small) population of Plymouth died.<br>The following year, they were approached by the local Wampanoag Indians whose territory they had settled in with offers of peace, because the Indians didn't see the pilgrims as a threat thanks to the presence of women and children. The most famous Wampanoag was Tisquantum (or Squanto), a former captured slave who spoke English and acted as an interpreter and instructor of the pilgrims, teaching them how to properly farm and fish.  
>The pilgrims had a bountiful harvest, and arranged one of their Days of Thanksgiving in response. Originally, the Wampanoag weren't invited, but the chief (Massasoit) and around 90 warriors showed up in response to the pilgrims' arms display, fearing an attack. The pilgrims then invited them to join the feast, but there wasn't enough food for all these new arrivals, so the Wampanoag brought five more deer to add to the food. The feast reportedly lasted around three days, and though harvest-festival feasts weren't commonplace in America until the 1660s, it's this first one that's honored in the modern American tradition of Thanksgiving.<p>

Now for Native American words:  
><em>Nitka-<em> the Wampanoag word for "mother." Wampanoag is actually an Algonquian language, so Alfred might actually be able to communicate to some degree.  
><em>Mahta<em>- Algonquin word for "no." Note the difference between Algonquin and Algonquian- Algonquin refers to a specific tribe, Algonquian is the native language family spoken in the northeast United States and into Canada.  
><em>Nihshans<em>- Algonquin word for "older brother," and more specifically, "_my_ older brother." Hence, when Charity addresses Alfred's brother as Nihshans, he corrects her, because he's _his_ older brother, not hers.

That's about it! Thanks for reading, and I hope all of you Americans had a wonderful Thanksgiving! (Now on to Christmas!)


	26. Four Separate Ways

A day later than I meant for it to happen, but here's a new chapter!

Thanks a lot to Hazel, seenlee93, Redskins, MyJen, Unknown Variable, Kagehana Tsukio, Eu, yeah9fun, The Arcane Magician, SakariWolfe, Aquarius-Otter, Aqua Cahill, ninja82, Mystic Dewdrop, and Hi for all of your lovely and ever-encouraging reviews on both the last chapter and the omake!  
>Thanks as well to AllyMCainey, OldGlory, IKickCommieAss, ruler of the ice dragons, LOThetalia, mayndrewfan123, insanelaughter, closeincline, Fedora13, and again to yeah9fun, The Arcane Magician, SakariWolfe, Aqua Cahill, and Mystic Dewdrop for all your favorites and alerts!<p>

On a related note, this story officially has more than 100 favorites and alerts! Thanks to all of you for your continued and ever-growing support!

Moving on to the good stuff... I hope you enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

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><p>For not the first time, Alfred could feel the stares of the townsfolk of San Francisco as he strolled through the cobblestoned streets, but for an utterly unfamiliar reason. He hadn't done anything strange, wasn't representing anyone important, and certainly wasn't dressed in anything outlandish like that dress-tunic Yao always insisted on wearing. And yet, the eyes still followed him as he pushed open the door of that little<p>

"Where's the rest of you, Jones?"

Alfred gave the shopkeeper a mildly acidic half-smile, keeping himself composed because this was the man who'd first sold him and George those spades all those months ago, and he'd gotten to know the man quite well in the months since. His name was Dirk, a man who'd seen immediately the pitfalls of mining and the benefits of being a merchant.

"They booked," Alfred said, keeping his tone cheerful. "Can't keep any of them around when there's life to be had elsewhere and no more gold in the mountains."

The shopkeeper nodded sympathetically, the expression at odds with his gruff exterior. "What can I say, Jones. My business is sure to drop, what with the mountains mined out, and pretty soon I fancy myself on a boat back east."

"_You?_" Alfred laughed. "That's something I _can't_ see."

The shopkeeper chuckled in agreement, but Alfred sobered quickly, because something was definitely missing. The other man seemed to notice it too, studying the air beside Alfred with a piercing gaze.

"Still, you look mighty odd without that Catron fellow," he said, pinpointing exactly Alfred's thoughts, "or at least that bonkers Chinaman… Yao, was it?"

Alfred only nodded. It was still unsettling, to wake up after ten years and not have that familiar curly head somewhere in the immediate vicinity. But George was up and gone, despite having been as close to a brother as he'd ever had, leaving just like everyone else did eventually.

He thought he'd gotten used to it, but goodbyes were just as hard as ever.

"That Catron fellow ran off to get married to that gal who came in to sell me a handkerchief awhile ago, didn't he? Olivia or something?"

"Olive," Alfred corrected, deciding to ignore that she'd been selling him stolen goods. "And yes, they moved back to Oregon."

"Shame. San Francisco's a nice enough place."

Alfred shrugged. "George has family, and it's still too much of a mining town here, I think. Even with the pending statehood and all that." He stood, deciding that he didn't want to spend his morning being questioned about his friends. "I've got to get to the shipyard, Dirk. I'll see you."

"Take care, Al!"

On his way out, Alfred knocked into a young man who looked about his age, another blond head nearly bumping his own. "Sorry," he muttered, adjusting his glasses from where they'd slipped and pushing past as the man entered the store. Alfred's thoughts, though, were with his friends far away.

_V~-~-~V_

"I still say George and Olive should get more. They're the ones getting married," Alfred grumbled, hefting his money bag in his hand, the cash rewards of their mining success finally tangible. It was their last night as a group together at their now mined-out campsite, and no one was quite ready to go to sleep yet.

"Nonsense, Al," George scoffed. "Ya need it more, if anythin', off on yer own an' all."

"Besides," sniffed Olive, "what makes you think I am anything less than perfectly capable of… procuring any necessary funds?"

Alfred couldn't help but grin at the truth in that. Oh, Lucretia was going to have a field day with Olive Rush.

Yao, meanwhile, was cackling in an almost disturbing manner as he tossed his share of the gold into the air, catching the nuggets deftly as they fell. He'd declined to exchange it for American money, which would be of no use to him back in China, preferring to keep it in its original form.

"I bet your boss'll wish he'd come with you," Alfred said. Yao turned, his eyes flickering.

"Oh, no, that boss is sick. Most likely, he will die before I get home. And then I will have a new boss, fourth son of old boss, and Prince Yizhu will not know, as you say, 'what hit him...'"

"That's nice," George agreed, looking a touch nervous, before facing Cornelius instead. "What're ya plannin' on doin', now that you've got gold?"

"I'll be headin' fer Nevada!" the big man declared. "That's where the silver is, after all!"

"Silver?" Olive inquired faintly, as George just chuckled faintly.

"Minin's in me bones, little miss! I'm gonna make me rich!"

Olive sighed, twirling a strand of hair around one delicate finger. "Disregarding that hopeless case, what of you, Alfred Jones? Will you be returning to Oregon with us?"

Alfred shook his head. "I left on less-than-great terms with Lucretia. And besides, I sort of miss the east coast. Big things are happening out there, you know."

"Yes," she snapped, but there was little venom in her words, "and none of it good. They're speaking of war, Alfred Jones. It would be best to stay far away from all that tosh and nonsense, in my opinion."

Alfred merely shrugged. "We'll get through it, whatever it is. Nothing shakes this country."

Yao lifted an eyebrow, finally done with his strange bilingual monologue. "Your country has a long way to go before it is strong, Alfred. China has lasted four thousand years and still we are not truly united."

Giving an exaggerated eye roll, Alfred replied, "Yes, but that's China, and this is America."

Cornelius laughed, a deep, booming sound. "Hear, hear!"

"Because manifest destiny will keep us together, surely," Olive grumbled, sarcasm lacing her words, but her lips quirked upwards as she spoke.

"Exactly," George put in, "manifest destiny an' folks like us!" He threw an arm around Olive, and Cornelius laughed again, tiny eyes twinkling.

The night had passed peacefully after that, but the following morning had arrived all too quickly for Alfred's taste, bringing with it a parting of ways.

Cornelius was gone first just after sunrise, crushing each of them in turn in a bear hug, sniffling in a decidedly tough manner. "I'll be sure t' find all o' ye some silver. If the silver doesn't work, I'll be back lookin' fer copper!" he called, before turning and marching southeast, his pickaxe and satchel slung over his broad shoulders.

Yao went next, dragging them all to the harbor where one of the strange Chinese ships was preparing to leave. "I will miss all of you," he said, oddly subdued for once, with nothing adorable in sight. "You have been very good friends, aru."

"So've you," George declared, wrapping an arm around Yao's shoulders. "For a foreigner with too much 'aru', you're a pretty good guy."

"And for ignorant American, so are you," Yao retorted. Then he turned to Alfred, his head tilted slightly upwards to meet the taller man's gaze.

"You have much before you, Alfred Jones, if you are who I think," he said in a voice clearly meant for only Alfred to hear, his words almost drowned out by the bustle of the pier. "Many good things, yes, but many bad things as well. Take care of your country."

Alfred's brow knitted, but something seemed to click. "Yao, what—"

But Yao had already backed off, bowing to George and Olive as he hefted his satchel onto his back. "George Catron, Rush-_xiaojie_." He turned, meeting Alfred's confused gaze once more with a small smile. "Alfred Jones. May we meet again."

Then Yao was gone, his red dress-tunic lost in the crowd on the pier. Moments later, Alfred caught sight of him mounting the gangplank to the Chinese ship before he disappeared for good, and it was just the three of them.

George and Olive had a stubborn mule and a cart piled with nearly as many trunks as Lucretia had brought west. "I dunno where we're gonna keep all of 'em," George had confided in Alfred. "And I can't decide if Luce is gonna love Olive for her clothes or hate 'er for stealin' her spot."

Alfred managed a grin, thinking along the same lines. "I don't know either, but I wish I could see it."

George's smile slipped off, a serious demeanor so unfamiliar taking its place. "Ya can come back, ya know. I'm sure Luce didn' mean half of what she said, and you've been such a great help all these years—"

"Sorry, George, but I'm going east. I just… need to be there now." Though the thought of that little cabin he'd helped build in the beautiful Willamette, Sam's quiet encouragement as they worked the fields, even Lucretia's patronizing humor and multitude of hats, was tempting indeed.

After ten years, they'd gotten as close to family as Alfred allowed.

"Well…" George said, hesitating as he spoke, "if ya ever change your mind, ya know where to find us." Alfred just nodded, before wrapping his nearly-brother in a hug.

"I'll miss you, George."

"I'm gonna miss ya too, Al."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred caught himself as he once again glanced sideways, hoping to find George there, only to have empty air stare back.

"I need someone to talk too, or I'm bound to go insane," he muttered.

To compound the problem, that certain part of his brain that always was cataloguing what was happening in the world kept expressing a need to go east, but unlike those _needs to go somewhere_ that happened from time to time, it wasn't being specific.

But he'd seen the papers. President Taylor was dead after the shortest presidency in history, replaced with his vice president, a man named Millard Fillmore. It was a shame really. Alfred had respected Taylor, war hero that he was, and was rather surprised when he'd run for President. The man had reportedly never been into politics.

Alfred wondered vaguely why he'd been feeling so dispassionate about his Presidents lately, despite his continued use of the possessive when speaking of them. Perhaps it was because he was so far from Washington, in the no-longer-so-lawless California?

Perhaps it was because he'd seen too many.

But now that Taylor was dead, the heavily debated Compromise that had been all over the political part of the newspapers was even more uncertain. Despite owning slaves, Taylor had never liked slavery, but Alfred had no idea about the new President.

Slavery. That was becoming the main issue, across the country. Though politically unsure of what would be best, Alfred knew where his morals lay, but the fate of the country was in a precarious position.

"The one time it would help to be a damn current-events-psychic, and what…?" he grumbled. "Not the faintest of what's happening."

"Stop talking to yerself, Jones, there're ships to be loaded!"

Alfred glanced up, meeting the stern gaze of his latest employer (the captain of a small fleet of trading ships) as he shouted down from the deck of a nearby vessel. "Sure thing, sir!" he called back, before hefting another crate and making his way up the gangplank.

It was all part of his grand plan to get back to the east coast: by working for a month loading ships, he was going to earn his passage, something not necessary with the gold he'd acquired, but Alfred thought it might be better to save that money for a later date.

He wondered when he'd become so reasonable. Peter always said he'd never get a head for finance.

"And you, new boy! Follow Jones!"

"Yes, sir!" piped a new voice, one Alfred hadn't yet heard on the pier. Turning, he was startled to see a young blond man shakily lift one of the smaller crates and wobble his way up the gangplank after Alfred. He had almost reached the top when one of his shaky steps took him precariously close to the edge.

"Hey!"

Alfred dropped his crate on the deck with a bang and grabbed the man's arm, hastily pulling him forward, sending them both crashing onto the deck and the crate flying. It landed in a splintery wooden heap, spilling its contents across the deck.

Abalone. That was unexpected.

"Jones! What in blazes are you doing?!"

Alfred looked up into the set face of his employer. "Saving new boy here," he replied, gesturing at the other man, who was slowly picking himself up.

"New boy can fend for himself, I'm sure," the man retorted. "Do yer own work, Jones, and then next time it happens you won't be addin' three days of work t' yer list."

"Anytime, sir."

His employer gave him a sharp look before spinning on his heel and marching to go oversee a group of men collectively carrying a rather large crate. "Faster, boys!"

The man beside Alfred still looked uncertain, but he offered Alfred a quick smile, one that briefly lit his brown eyes. "Thanks for that. Sorry about the extra work, though."

"It's no trouble. Watch out for yourself." The man looked pleasantly surprised at Alfred's response, but collected himself quickly, flashing one more smile before getting back to work.

As Alfred watched him, it became clear the other wasn't particularly used to much physical labor, if his thin frame wasn't already a giveaway, but he didn't fall again, so Alfred figured he'd be safe enough. When they were dismissed for the day, sometime in the late afternoon, Alfred approached the man, because something about him was definitely familiar.

An introduction on Alfred's part and a few exchanged remarks later, the pair was off to find food.

_V~-~-~V_

"So your name's Alfred, then?" the man asked.

Alfred nodded. "Yours?"

"Charlie. But my middle name's Alfred. Funny coincidence, eh?"

"Sure." Alfred poked his pot pie, still unsure of why the other was so weirdly familiar. He was quiet but quick-tongued, an odd combination but it seemed to work, oddly well-spoken for a dock worker, and wholly unlike anyone Alfred had met.

"You wouldn't happen to be that man I crashed into walking out of the mining goods store a week ago, would you?"

Charlie was scrutinizing Alfred, his eyes a dark walnut color, but he was definitely right. "I think I was," Alfred said slowly.

The other grinned. "I seem to be making a habit of that, the whole crashing business."

"You need healthier habits."

Charlie laughed. "So… from what I heard, you're going back to the east coast?"

Alfred nodded. "Not much left for me out here."  
>"I know what you mean." A scowl graced the other's features. "No gold left in the mountains, a city full of foreigners and no decent people… present company excluded."<p>

"Oh, I found gold—"

"Then why on earth would you be working for your passage back?"

"Saves money?"

Charlie gave an odd little half-shrug. "I can see that. I'd be doing the same, if I had money to be saving…"

"I guess you didn't find any gold, then?"

"Not anything worth much," Charlie grumbled. "I had grand plans, you know… find gold, bring my fiancée out here, that sort. But Marcy was right, I've got more opportunity back in Illinois." He glanced sideways at Alfred, taking a bite of his potatoes. "I'm a lawyer, you know, trained and all."

"Really? I was a lawyer once!" Alfred exclaimed. "Or at least, I went to law school… never had much use for that education, though."

"We're in the same boat, then, quite literally," Charlie replied, a wry smile on his face. "Marcy will be so pleased to have someone else to prove her point—she's my fiancée, you know." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. "I got this at the shop I ran into you at, as a sort of… 'please do not be angry with me' present."

Alfred took it, and his breath caught at the sight of the familiar embroidery in the corner, the looping cursive _MW_ that was so distinctive to one uptight almost-Canadian wife.

"Marietta Westcott," he whispered, running his thumb over the stitches, wondering how her custom handkerchief had made it all the way to San Francisco. Had she sold it, perhaps lost it?

Charlie didn't seem to have heard, because he was still talking. "Of course, those aren't her initials yet, so I was wondering if it might be a bit preemptive to buy such a thing, but it was too pretty to pass up."

"What's the W stand for?" Alfred asked absently, still staring at the handkerchief, almost reluctant to return it.

"For the future Mrs. Wetherby, of course."

_V~-~-~V_

Sure enough, Minning had been dead for a few months when Yao returned. He stood in the new Emperor-to-be's chambers just before the coronation ceremony, studying the young prince before him while the prince looked caught between haughty superiority and awe.

"You are the advisor, then?" the prince asked, using Yao's more commonly known business title, but one in the court always knew who was being spoken of when the advisor was mentioned.

"Your grandfather's, the previous dynasty's… every Emperor before you, Prince Yizhu, and after." The prince was barely twenty years old. Such a young ruler, but he'd had younger.

The prince still looked awestruck for a moment, before composing himself. "My father said you were away in America, gone with all the southern peasants. Why?"

Yao shrugged. "I was bored. If you want to be a better Emperor than your father, hold more parades."

"Really?"

"I am the advisor, aru."

The prince looked thoughtful. "Maybe that can be arranged… did anything else interesting happen?"

Yao smiled faintly, thoughts of gold-tasting and _shouxiling_ and lady thieves filling his mind. Oh, yes, it had been an interesting journey, but more because of the blue-eyed, bespectacled American boy who seemed something more. The consequences of such a thing though, would stagger the world of Nations; how had he gone missing for so long, if he was, in fact, what Yao's experience told him he was?

But the prince certainly wasn't ready for all that yet. Perhaps in ten years, the world would be ready. Yao was patient; he certainly could wait that long.

"No, nothing too interesting. But Americans really are fascinating people. I do not think we give them enough credit."

The prince waved a hand, suddenly back in the royalty role he'd been born to play. "China already has everything it needs," he said, an eerie parrot of his father and nearly every emperor before him.

"I suppose it does, Prince Yizhu."

A servant rapped on the door, then slid it open, head bowed respectfully. "The ceremony is about to begin, sirs. If you would please…?"

Prince Yizhu, soon-to-be the Xianfeng Emperor, stood in a rustle of cloth, Yao standing at the same time, his own formal robes falling gracefully about him. The Prince followed the servant and Yao followed him, just as he had followed nearly every Emperor for four thousand years, standing in their shadows as he watched his country move forward.

He hoped that America, and Alfred F Jones along with it, could do the same.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>A lot of dialogue and wrapping up, but I promise it'll get more exciting in the next few chapters.<p>

Historical first:  
>Around the early 1850s, gold was no longer so plentiful in the mountains (as in, any inexperienced wannabe couldn't just go out and pick some up). Strip mining, chemical mining, and all sorts of other environmentally-damaging practices (the evidence of which is still around today) began, and the days of the get-rich-quick wagoner were over.<br>Zachary Taylor was a Louisiana planter and slaveholder with a 40-year military career before running for President as a member of the Whig party (though he wound up upholding little of their views while in office). He actually had the third-shortest tenure of any President, dying 16 months after his inauguration, and was succeeded by his Vice President, Millard Fillmore (whose birthday is, incidentally, also January 7th, an excellent day if I do say so myself).  
>The Compromise of 1850 was briefly mentioned, and will be gone over further next chapter, along with slavery and all that as precursors to the Civil War.<br>Prince Yizhu, who later became the Xianfeng Emperor, was the fourth son of the Daoguang Emperor, Yao's former boss. He rose to the throne after his father died in February of 1850, becoming the 9th Emperor of the Qing Dynasty.

Pretty sparse chapter overall, but I hope to have the next out shortly. I told you the handkerchief would be back!

The greater plot also begins to move soon, that elusive outside one that has less to do with history and Alfred and more with Hetalia. I'm looking forward to it, grand plans and all that...

See you all soon!


	27. East and Farther East

I seem to be making a habit of lateness. Let us correct that this new year.  
>But, this chapter is a few hundred words longer than normal! So yay!<p>

Thank you ever so much to blue J, The Cloud's Essence, Zeplerfer, the Bluegayle, Petaltailify97, seenlee93, MyJen, SakariWolfe, Aqua Cahill, Bexreader, Forever in the Fire, WeAllFlyHigh, ninja82, Aquarius-Otter, and Phoenix for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to amichalap, Matchet Hatchet, winged wolf 2, Dragoomega06, Pain and Betrayal, Kuma the wolf alchemist, Icephoenix321, Wolferunner123, MakesnoSensei (I love that name, btw), roxassoul, and again to The Cloud's Essence, Bexreader, and Forever in the Fire for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On a related note, this story has reached 200 reviews! Thank you to everyone for your continued support!

And on a story note, I know I kinda promised Civil War stuff... but you're going to have to wait another chapter more. In the interest of following canon, hopefully, Japan's fun enough for all of you!

Enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>January of 1852 was no longer surprisingly warm to Alfred, having experienced previous winters on the west coast. Still, the wind off the San Francisco Bay was chilly, and his breath came out in puffs as he attempted to stuff his fingers further into his pockets.<p>

Charlie appeared to be having no such warmth problems, his bare hands waving about and his scarf coming undone as he yelled,

"What do you mean, you can't take us back?!"

The boss of the shipping company rubbed his temples, fingers brushing the grey streaks that were slowly working themselves into his hair. He was a mere ghost of the powerful man with a fearsome presence, his head bowed as the regular dock crowd shifted around them.

Charlie, on the other hand, was fuming, practically shooting sparks as he gesticulated wildly, pinning their boss under the fiercest glare he could muster. Alfred admittedly found it was pretty impressive.

"We worked the necessary time, didn't we? Did all your idiotic… box-carrying, and still came back for more?"

"No fault of yers, Wetherby," their boss cut in, his tired voice making him sound civil for once. "My latest ships ran into trouble off Cape Horn, two are being detained back east, and the one I have here is full up. The best I can do for you boys is tell you to wait another few months—"

"Bullshit!" Charlie growled, and their boss flinched. "I'm getting _married_ when I can! I need to be back in Illinois, all in one piece, with a stable job or at least saved-up money as soon and as certainly as is humanly possible!"

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Wetherby." Squinty eyes flicked to Alfred, who hadn't yet spoken. "Or you, Jones."

Charlie snarled wordlessly and stalked away. Alfred began to follow but paused, looking back at his boss. "How soon can you get us east?"

"Six to seven months if you want to get paid, four if yer willin' to go without."

Alfred glanced to where Charlie had gone. "We'll go without."

_V~-~-~V_

"The postal system out here is damn worthless," Charlie groused. "Can't even give me a reasonable arrival date for my letter!"

"Writing to your fiancée again?" Alfred inquired as he hiked the leather satchel that contained all of his important worldly possessions higher on his back.

Charlie nodded. "I told her we'll be in New York in six months, so to send her next letter there. But I'm really worried, the last letter said her father was ill, and she's only got sisters… how're they going to fare? They haven't much money as it is…"

"I'm sure he's not that sick," Alfred said, attempting to reassure his friend, for friends they had become over the last few months. "Probably just a spot of the flu, or something. She did write during December."

Charlie wrung his hands, an achingly familiar gesture to Alfred. "Besides," Alfred continued, "it's nearly summer, so post should travel faster."

The other nodded, but didn't look convinced.

Charlie mailed his letter anyway, incompetence in the postal service and all. Mere hours later, the pair boarded a ship bound for New York, one exclusively for desperate, low-class passengers and cargo.

Alfred didn't count himself as either, having plenty of money still left from the gold they'd discovered, not at all in a rush to get back east, and certainly not crates of abalone or pigs. Charlie, however, fit just about all of the passenger criteria.

And it is said, when one is too desperate in desiring something (like an expeditious sea voyage, or a pony), the exact opposite will happen.

Their rickety ship, a month or several into the voyage, was waylaid in a storm off the know-t0-be-treacherous (and rightfully so) Cape Horn and lost a few weeks' time, plus one of their sails. Their expected supply stop on a nameless Caribbean island fell through when they discovered the port overrun with pirates on shore leave, and their jaunt up the Atlantic coast was delayed by whaling traffic and a good deal of foreign commerce.

All of this (combined with a superstitious captain who was always pausing to look for dolphins at sunrise) resulted in nearly entirely spoilt cargo and an early landing in Norfolk, Virginia when their ship ran out of fresh water, and the stink of abalone belowdecks became too much to bear for a moment longer.

And it was in the chill-but-not-too-cold grips of a Virginia November that a lost and irate Charlie Wetherby received the letter that would help change the course of history.

_V~-~-~V_

"You got a letter?"

Wordlessly, Charlie nodded. "I don't know how they found me… I told her to send all her mail to New York!"

"Maybe the postal system isn't as incompetent as you thought," Alfred replied, a touch smugly. "From Marcy, then?"

But Charlie ignored him in favor of tearing open the thick envelope that sealed his fiancée's latest news. Walnut-brown eyes raced down the page, lips moving as they read, but no words escaping, until they paused.

It was almost stifling, because Alfred didn't know what it had taken to make his friend pause like that, and Alfred never liked not knowing, especially when it came to those he considered nearly family. For if he was really of the right Wetherby's (Alfred hadn't yet worked up the nerve to ask; after all, one doesn't just say, "Hello, I might be a friend of your great-granduncle's, mind if I stop by for tea sometime to chat about your deceased family members?"), he practically was _related_.

"He's dead."

Jerked from his tangential thoughts that no longer seemed quite so tangential, Alfred started. "What?"

Charlie laughed, a hollow, sarcastic sound. "Marcy's father. He's dead. They've no income and multiple daughters."

Alfred was still puzzled. It must have shown on his face, because Charlie continued, "Don't you see? My family doesn't have enough money to provide for a whole new one, _they_ have no income and thus, not much inheritance anyway, and too many financial troubles makes for a marriage that _isn't going to happen!_ Not between a girl with no money and a jobless lawyer!"

"California was supposed to solve this," he muttered, talking to himself now. "_That_ was supposed to be the big break, the final step—"

"People marry for love all the time," Alfred ventured. "Surely you two can work something out…?"

"My father would never go for that," Charlie replied wearily. "He's a lawyer too, you know, very interested in financial welfare and all that, and Marcy's mother will want her to marry someone upstanding, who can provide for the lot of them."

Something about Charlie's absolute despondency filled Alfred with this sudden desire to _help_, to just make it better, whatever it was. Maybe it was the Emeline that he automatically associated with every Wetherby. He was half-hopeful that Charlie _wasn't _one of those Wetherbys, because then life would be simple, and Alfred cold leave the young man, guilt-free, and never have to think about Charlie's parents or grandparents in that woeful, dreading feeling that the possibility of seeing them brought.

Yet any Wetherby with the middle name _Alfred_ (as much as it felt like overblown self-pride) was surely no coincidence.

Glancing around the Norfolk port, Alfred suddenly caught sight of men in military uniforms loading one of the larger ships. Ships were always something that took his mind off things, maybe they would help Charlie too.

"C'mere Charlie, let's see what those folks're up to!"

If Charlie noticed Alfred's sudden leap in enthusiasm, he didn't comment. "But the letter..."

Alfred snatched the envelope from Charlie's hands. He cried out in surprise, but Alfred merely said, "Worrying can wait, but American military ships stop for nothing!"

A bright grin was all it took, and Charlie was following. Perhaps the death grip Alfred had on his post helped, but Alfred preferred to see it as natural charm or something.

Meanwhile, he all but skipped in the direction of the military ship. It wasn't a sailboat, rather a paddle-wheel steamer that had sails merely for extra power. Its name was printed on the side in bold, white letters.

"The _Mississippi,_ huh?" he asked, directing his question at a nearby sailor. "Where's she going?"

The man paused briefly, glancing about for a superior officer before setting down his load. "We're part of Commodore Perry's mission. This here, she's the flagship. All bound for Japan, making regular dip-lo-mats of us all." He stretched out the word, emphasizing each syllable. "Though I dunno why they're sending the military," he continued, leaning closer in a conspiratory fashion, his thin, greying beard making his appearance gruffer than his words. "Somethin' not quite all right about that, y'know? But o' course, I keep my mouth shut, yessir, just do my job. You didn't hear none of this from me, awright?"

But Alfred was still stuck on one thing. "Japan? Isn't that clear across the Pacific ocean?"

"Oh, we're not going that way," the man scoffed. "Too much bother and not enough ports, y'see? We're going clear across the Atlantic, and to Africa... and after that I don't rightly know. My geo-gra-phy was never so good."

Alfred just nodded in agreement, because his geography had never been terrific either. He knew America like the back of his hand, about half the time he'd remember Canada and Mexico, and he had a vague sense of the size of the oceans, but beyond that...?

Charlie, though, seemed much more knowledgeable on this front. "You mean you'll be going through the Indian Ocean and the south Asian islands? You'll see just about the entire planet going that way!"

The man was stammering out some "well, I don't rightly know"s and shuffling awkwardly when all of a sudden, Japan seemed like a much better place to be than the east coast of the United States, at least to Alfred. And he was suddenly sure, from Charlie's enthusiastic questions, that he could easily accomplish two things at once.

"Any chance we can go with you?"

_V~-~-~V_

Barely a day later, Alfred found himself once again on a ship, with Charlie not at his side but definitely nearby (because he in the midst of an irritable spell). Only this time, they were bound for much more exciting things than Norfolk, Virginia.

And the ship itself was absolutely amazing. Alfred had never ridden on a paddleboat steamer before, always too expensive as passenger ships for his very low budget, but the way they belched black smoke and crashed through the water with none of the finesse of a sailing ship just _screamed_ industry. And Alfred was personally rather fond of industry.

With his gold-money and more sentimental possessions stored away in a safety deposit box back in Virginia, Alfred also felt like he was finally ready for another adventure, and to a new country at that!

Besides, their adventure had very nearly not happened, because Commodore Perry (as Alfred had learned) was a man who liked planning everything down to the last detail, and it had been a grand stroke of luck that the page boy and steward who were slated to go on this diplomatic mission had backed out at the last minute, and a pair of overly qualified young men with lawyer training presented a definite improvement.

One of the many reasons Charlie was in his cabin, in a poor mood, while Alfred was standing on deck, enjoying the sea air, was because he had been assigned as the page boy's replacement. Alfred had laughed when Charlie had complained that, "Surely I'm the older one here, why is he the steward?"

But a steward and page boy's pay combined, especially for such a long voyage, was certainly enough for Charlie to start off on once he returned to Illinois, and to his fiancée, so it became an offer of both worldliness and money that Charlie couldn't refuse.

Alfred had met with Commodore Perry as something of a formality, and had dragged Charlie along with him. He'd immediately hit on with the military man: determined, industrious, and rather brilliant, he was everything Alfred felt a commander should be.

Perry had eyed them shrewdly when they'd first entered, but like most people, he immediately warmed up to Alfred, and had hired them shortly after. "Who can say? Perhaps your lawyer sense will come in use at some point," was the primary reason he gave.

"As good a reason as any," Alfred had replied with a grin, before asking the question he really wanted an answer to. "So, why Japan, anyway?"

Perry had immediately sobered. "We need reliable ports for coal and oil," he began, in what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, "for any American ships in the area, and agreements for trade to be conducted within those ports. We also need the promise of help for any shipwrecked Americans, and freedom of movement for American citizens within those ports. To ensure their rights, you see."

Alfred had raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, the diplomat he'd been what seemed so long ago coming to the surface. "Are all these... guns really necessary if all you want is a trade agreement? Sure, the freedom of movement parts seem a bit excessive and demanding... but surely anyone would _want_ to trade with America," he added, a note of pride in his voice.

Perry shook his head. "Japan has been closed for centuries to the outside world. I've been studying every resource there is to study on them and their history for the past nine months, and I've determined that the four previous American attempts failed because they were both insufficient in displays of strength and ignorant of Japanese character. And I," he puffed himself up momentarily, "am certain that with the proper preparations for both, I will succeed."

_V~-~-~V_

Months later, Alfred was certain that he now knew why that strange Arthur fellow from Boston had loved sailing so very much.

Madiera had been bustling, loud, and decidedly foreign. For once, Alfred couldn't understand a word of what was being said around him, and he'd actually had to muscle through the crowd on the dock, something he'd never had to do back home. He chalked it up to people being less polite than they were in America, even though the vendors were always smiling and attempting in vain to make friendly conversation in Portuguese.

The Cape of Good Hope had been decidedly dreadful to get around, mainly because there were no port stops until Capetown itself. But for one splendid moment, Alfred had called Charlie over to show him the abrupt line where the Indian and Atlantic oceans met in a clash of teal-green and deep blue.

Mauritius was a quaint, tropical place, just what Alfred had always imagined whenever Lucretia had mentioned glamorous people and the types of fancy vacations some went on. Usually they were to London or Paris, but occasionally the tropics were mentioned, but Alfred didn't believe she'd ever said how beastly _hot_ the place was.

Hong Kong was almost not a part of China, so big was the difference between it and the port of Shanghai. A grand, modern city with an Oriental flair compared to a sprawling fishing village. Alfred spent much of his time there wondering if Yao had ever been, and trying to catch glimpses of that elusive ponytail and red tunic through the crowds.

At Singapore, he wasn't allowed off the boat because in Hong Kong, he'd spent his shore leave trying to ask after his one Chinese friend, frightening the locals to no end with his persistence. But Alfred found it amazing that so much could fit on such a small island, an entire nation surrounded completely by ocean.

This adventure, mosquitoes and bad food aside, was seeming more like one of those marvelous vacations to Alfred, even if the rest of the crew didn't seem to feel that way.

But it was in Lew Chew, the island later known as Okinawa, that Alfred remembered that this was a mission for his country, not some jaunt around the world for his fancy.

"Disem_bark!_" Commodore Perry bellowed, loudly enough that the other ships in their fleet that had joined the mighty _Mississippi_ heard and echoed the call. Alfred had grabbed Charlie and stuck close behind the Commodore himself, who was hoisted onto a sedan chair borne by eight men. Together, nearly two hundred men formed an impressive procession, with the colors flying in front, followed by the _Mississippi_'s band, a company of Marines, and then the Commodore and his Marine bodyguard, which Alfred and Charlie stuck with. They were followed by even more men, another band, and the gifts.

Along the sides of the road people gathered, whispering and taking in the sight of the foreign pomp and circumstance, which Alfred thought was all a bit overdone.

"The man didn't need a damn _parade_ to make his entrance," Charlie whispered, barely audible over the sound of the two bands. "He could've done just fine walking in and introducing himself, like any normal person."

Alfred shrugged. "I'm sure he has his reasons. Good first impressions, or something."

"If this was _my_ first impression of him, I'd think he was a right pompous idiot with an overblown ego and absolutely no regard for diplomatic procedure."

Alfred was inclined to agree with that sentiment, but instead just shrugged again. Charlie huffed, and settled for glaring daggers at the back of the Commodore's chair.

But the expedition, Alfred was sure, would prove its worth with the result of Lew Chew that seemed inevitable. Before long, they would be in Tokyo, and then the true test of Commodore Perry's thus far admirable mettle would come to test.

_V~-~-~V_

In a pile of blankets no longer a world away, a certain Japanese man was curled into a tiny, protective ball, hiding from the world outside his dimly lit room and willing the intense feeling of foreboding washing over him to just go away.

Such a feeling had to do, in no small part, with the letter he'd received from China. _Since when have we been on letter-sending terms_, he wondered, and was careful in opening the message, just in case Yao had decided to send a poisonous plant or something in spite.

But there was nothing, just an ordinary letter, written in Yao's usual impeccable calligraphy that he'd once tried to teach Kiku. Of course, Kiku had then gone and invented_ kana _instead, but that was neither here nor there.

The letter had been desperately vague. Kiku could just imagine Yao laughing as he wrote it, thinking himself clever. It told of his trip to America, lorded the fact that he now had a personal stockpile of gold over Kiku's head, while repeatedly mentioning a certain _Alfred_.

In closing, he'd written, _Alfred is a very nosy young man. I am almost certain that he will soon find a way inside your walls._

Kiku had pondered the letter for a good day, before choosing instead to throw it in the corner where he threw all things that reminded him of the outside world, and crawled back beneath his blankets.

But going away was something the foreboding feeling still refused to do, even in the quilts' secure warmth, so it was with a sense of resigned dignity that he dressed in his more formal clothes and kneeled by the window of his room, waiting.

The sound of stocking feet on wood roused him from his melancholy thoughts. There was a brief knock beside his sliding door, but the knocker gave up and simply thrust the bamboo screen open.

"Honda-san-"

The man known as Honda Kiku to the average sort, and the nation of Japan to the rest, stood slowly. "Good morning, Osaka-kun," he replied.

The ponytailed young man standing in the doorway straightened abruptly. "Oh— I hadn't realized you were up and about." He bowed quickly. "Please forgive my sudden intrusion."

Kiku smiled wanly. "So, what important news have you today?"

Osaka jerked back upright. "Yes, the ships!" he exclaimed. "There are American ships in Tokyo Bay, big black ones that are very forbidding in appearance!"

Kiku's heart sank. "How many?"

"The number—" Osaka paused, before finishing sheepishly, "I actually do not think anyone has bothered to count."

"This is worse than expected," he whispered, addressing the feeling of foreboding he'd had nearly all week. "We have had others visit in the past, though. How are these so different? We will simply send them away—"

"But that's the thing, Honda-san," interrupted Osaka, wringing his hands in a half-frantic, half-apologetic manner. "This fleet brought guns."

Kiku paled. They couldn't hope to contest with these guns, not with their weaponry that was doubtless outdated by now, their European guns easily a century old. And what had they for ships and sailors? Fishing boats?

"Sir-!"

Another young man at the door, this time a representative of the Tokugawa family itself. He didn't give Kiku time to reply before he bowed quickly and said, in a voice that booked no argument, "The Emperor commands your presence immediately, Honda Kiku-san. Delay would not be wise."

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Done again! And by the way, tomorrow (January 7th) is your illustrious author's birthday, so I will take any follows or reviews as birthday presents.<p>

History first:  
>The journey by ship from San Francisco to New York takes about 6-8 months, going around Cape Horn at the tip of South America. It's a treacherous voyage, as the Cape is known for its storms and assortment of jagged rocks, so delays were pretty expected.<br>The Pony Express doesn't come along for another ten years, and the Transcontinental Railroad another ten after that, so the mail system between coasts was pretty bad as a general rule.  
>Commodore William Perry's expedition was the fifth sent by the United States in an attempt to convince Japan to trade with them. Perry was assigned the expedition in March of 1852, though they didn't leave until November. He spent those months learning everything he could about Japan and Japanese culture in an effort to create the best tactics for diplomacy. More of those to come.<br>The expedition went from Norfolk, Virginia and around South Africa to get to Japan, stopping at all the places mentioned and more, because ships stuck close to land in those days, particularly ships that needed coal refills. The _Mississippi_ was the flagship, with the rest of the fleet either having mechanical problems or meeting Perry in Asia, so they left the USA alone, leaving instructions for the others to join them when they could.  
>The description of the parade in OkinawaLew Chew is all factual, and there really was a steward and a page boy accompanying the Marine bodyguards.  
>The ships docked in Tokyo Bay in 1853, panicking civilians and politicians alike. The Japanese called them the <em>kurofune, <em>and their arrival marked the beginning of the end of Japanese self-imposed isolation. The isolation, called _sakoku _(or 'closed country'), was imposed by the Tokugawa Shogunate in an attempt to keep western influences out of Japan. Among them was religion, because the shogunate feared that it would unite people under a banner other than Japan's because it forced them to pledge allegiance to a foreign power. In the interest of keeping Japan united, western influences were purged, and the country closed to everyone but the Dutch for two centuries.

Phew! Next chapter, I promise the rest of Perry, more of Japan, whales, and a return to America. Depending on how long it takes, we might even get to Illinois. We shall see!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, if you have the time, please don't hesitate to leave a comment, question, or review!

See you next time!


	28. Persistence and Perry

A new chapter!

I am officially convinced that you all are the greatest people on this lovely earth. Ten thousand thanks to each and every one of you for all of your birthday wishes (you too, guest reviewer who sang for me), together you all made my birthday amazing!

Now, not to name names (but I will), thanks ever so much to MyJen, seenlee93, In The Mix, ninja82, Spottedleaves1, skyspottedshadow, jayfeather63, yeah9fun, Jonsass, phoenixphlight, Forever In The Fire, Aqua Cahill, SakariWolfe, the Guest who sang, 11pink45, WeAllFlyHigh, AzamiBlossom, Zeplerfer, Pain and Betrayal, ryuketsuki, Ms. AJ Ninja, Oniongrass, HarryPotterForLife7, another lovely Guest, jayiel, Miakotsu band of Seven (you win the prize for the shortest review possible), Aquarius-Otter, and Verachime for all of your amazing reviews!  
>Thanks as well to becky199756, PielsAwesome8234, Heihei, EmbersAshes, EnglandXChinaForever, HallowsEveDays, On-A-Sunny-Day, Blogman66, RubyChimera, Viviene, and again to Jonsass, AzamiBlossom, ryuketsuki, and Ms. AJ Ninja for your alerts and favorites!<p>

And happy birthday to the reviewer who asked me to publish this chapter today... sorry it came so late, but I figure I'd return the favor!

Please enjoy!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

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><p>It was the third day after they'd docked in Tokyo Bay, and Alfred had yet to see the Emperor.<p>

Not that he expected to meet him, but he'd expected the man to at least come out to the ships. Alfred knew Perry had letters to give him that the Japanese leader was evidently able to collect, because the Commodore was holing himself up in his office, refusing to speak with the Japanese delegates who had been sent, saying he would meet only with the Emperor himself.

_Can't fault the man for getting straight to the point,_ Alfred thought. He sat in what had become his usual spot on the deck, a slightly elevated level that overlooked the main space of the ship. Currently, the Marines were exercising in battle station positions, as they had every day since their arrival in Japan.

Meanwhile, out in the water, another group of Japanese guard ships was herded away from the _Mississippi_ by the ever-vigilant American sailors. The locals were also prohibited from visiting, something Perry had made quite clear the first time they'd tried. Gifts sent by the Japanese officials were rejected, the Commodore refused requests to relocate to Nagasaki (the previously designated foreign port), and the Japanese could to absolutely nothing about it, because the Americans were armed to the teeth.

All in all, Alfred was growing bored of Perry's brand of diplomacy. But Charlie, with his wealth of random knowledge picked up in school, had mentioned something far more interesting shortly after their arrival:

"Whales."

"What?"

"Y'know, great big blue fish that're really mammals," Charlie said, before pointing to something out in the water. "Those."

Alfred squinted, then wiped his glasses to clean them of saltwater in hopes of seeing clearer. "Those grey lumps out there?"

"Yep. I'm pretty sure they're why we're here."

"I thought we were here for diplomacy?" Alfred asked, brow furrowing, still squinting into the distance.

"That too, but the diplomacy's really just a cover for our whale-hunting agenda. I think they use them to make oil and corsets." Charlie shrugged. "Doesn't really matter to me either way, but it's pretty important to the politicians."

"That's not very friendly."

"You think?" Charlie laughed, voice dripping with sarcasm. "We show up an arsenal fifty times the size of theirs practically invading their country, our leader pouts in his office because he can't see the Emperor, and we lead _parades_ of all things—"

"No, I mean to the whales."

Charlie stopped. "The… whales?"

"It's not very nice to go around killing them for oil and corsets," Alfred continued, frowning. Suddenly, he brightened. "I know! I'll make friends with them! Then they'll know we're not _all _out to get them!"

Sputtering, Charlie couldn't do much more than gape. "Make friends—with whales? Are you completely _crackers,_ Alfred?"

"I don't think so, but I once met this girl in San Francisco who claimed she could speak Humpback, and everyone thought _she_ was."

Charlie shook his head and walked away, muttering about sharpest knives and loony bins, and missed it as one of the grey lumps in the distance suddenly flipped into the air, making a tremendous splash and looking surprisingly graceful for such a big thing. Alfred whooped, and spent the rest of the day thinking about his new quest.

_V~-~-~V_

"They aren't leaving, Honda. Why aren't they leaving?!"

"I do not know. Perhaps they are not as accepting of our compromise as we thought they would be."

The Emperor of Japan stalked back and forth across the wooden floorboards, as Kiku kneeled in what seemed like relative calm. Two of the princes sat nearby, shrinking away as their father grew angrier.

"This is my country, _mine!_ And if I don't wish for foreigners to come in, wrecking my forefathers' system with their ideology and fancy things, they'd best stay out!"

"I do not think they will." Kiku was at a loss, his best Japanese stalling techniques failing in the face of the American military. "Perhaps it would be more beneficial to just accept their request to meet you."

"They do have a great many guns," piped up one of the princes, Toda.

"_I know they have guns!_" the Emperor spat. "The question is what to do when faced with them, and we will not balk! Where is your samurai courage and honor?" he asked, directing his wrath at his son.

"Honor aside, if they start shooting at the port, we would be powerless to stop them, and many men would die trying to defend the country," the other prince, Ido, added. The current restless state of the populace went unmentioned.

The Emperor seemed to contemplate that for a moment, then deflated slightly. "Fine." Turning to one of the servants who was always ready in the corner of the room, he ordered, "A special building is to be swiftly constructed to receive these foreigners. I intend to listen to their demands, but they will not roam Edo unchecked."

Then facing his two sons, he declared, "You both will take the Imperial barge out to meet these foreign military men and arrange such a meeting. Leave immediately." The princes hastened to their feet and bowed their way out of the room.

Finally, he addressed Kiku. "You dealt with the Englishmen and the Dutchmen when they came in the past, correct?" Kiku nodded mutely. "Excellent. You will now be coming with me, to deal with these Americans."

_V~-~-~V_

When the royal barge appeared, Alfred had expected to finally see the Emperor, but got two princes instead. Apparently, this was enough for Perry, and he had finally agreed to leave his cabin for such an exchange.

Alfred found the meeting itself rather dull, an awful lot of pomp, circumstance, and even a special pavilion just so Perry could deliver President Fillmore's letters to the princes, who then promised to take them to the Emperor.

"The letters are not treaties, but avowals of friendship," the Commodore had said, which was then translated by nervous Japanese man (who'd learned his English secondhand from another Japanese man, who'd first learned it from the Dutch). "Seeing as you will be departing from age-old custom if you see it fit to eventually draft a treaty, I am willing to give you until spring to reach a decision, which I believe is sufficient time."

The Japanese delegates had nodded, listened to a few more broken translations of Perry, and then politely asked the Americans to leave as soon as possible.

But Perry was stubborn. "I leave on no terms but my own," he'd announced to the American fleet, and had waited three days more, while completing hydrographic surveys of the Japanese coast.

Currently, the ships were anchored back in Hong Kong for the winter, a place warmer than even California, and still Perry worried.

Alfred had come to his cabin at his request, and wondered if it was in his list of stewardly duties to listen to his commanding officer worry and complain out loud. He glanced at the large clock that somehow Perry had gotten on board, past all military regulations. An hour and sixteen minutes and counting.

The man was surely gunning for Lucretia's record.

"—and remember that news we received back in November? The Russians were visiting Nagasaki! And as for the French, I saw their frigate leave myself from this very harbor bound for Japan, the nerve of them! And 'sealed orders,' my great-aunt's left big toe! They were just trying to keep it secret that they wanted to get a treaty with Tokyo before _I _do, those snail-eating frogs…"

"Y'know," Alfred cut in, finally irritated enough to go against military regulations himself, "most countries run their diplomacy under 'sealed orders' because that's how you get things _done_ without other countries mucking about in your business. And the Japanese don't like the Russians, you said so yourself twenty minutes ago, so the chances of anything happening there are _smaller_ than your great-aunt's left big toe."

Perry paused in his pacing. "Yes… I suppose you're right. But!" he resumed his pacing, this time it more purposeful. "We will still leave earlier than planned, yes, mid-January sound nice. That way we can make a side trip to Okinawa with time to spare before we reach Tokyo… a bit earlier than we are expected, but no matter. Yes, this should do nicely, thank you Jones," he said dismissively, and paced himself straight out of his office.

Alfred sighed and followed suit, intent on finding Charlie, even if he'd holed himself up in the cold storage again because the heat was "downright godawful."

_V~-~-~V_

Kiku had been nervously waiting for a good half-hour when the American military men arrived, promptly on time and dressed in their fancy uniforms as always. Of course, he too wore his nicer robes, but this, not to mention the guns, set a whole new standard of assertiveness that Kiku's moderate sensibilities did not approve of at all.

There were guards outside too, he could hear them clanking about, the nasal consonants of their loud English grating on his ears. He'd learned to speak it long ago, of course, but thought himself rather out of practice. Hiding in a blanket fort could do that to a person.

One of the men before him he recognized as Commodore Perry by the number of little trinkets on his chest and the way his upturned collar seemed to be suffocating his cheeks, just like the princes had said. The other trinket-wearing military men were clearly his associates of some sort.

But there were two who confused Kiku. Young and blond, without the pervasive air of stuffiness that the others had, one sat just to the side of Perry himself, blue eyes unfocused as if he was not particularly concerned with the momentous occasion of the day. The other was also blond, but with dark eyes, and he was positively scowling.

Kiku placed a comforting hand on the translator's shoulder as the man trembled beside him, and they waited for the American to speak.

"We thank you for agreeing to meet with us, and hope you've reached a conclusion," the man said, which the translator repeated in Japanese. He continued on for a few more minutes, even mentioning the French and Russians who had visited a few months prior, and looked relieved when the translator assured him that they'd been denied access to the island.

Finally, he reached the meat of the matter. "Steward, please list the benefits of trade for these fine delegates, and the reasons for our arrival."

He looked at the young blond man, but he was staring into space. "_Steward,_" he said, a bit more sharply this time. The younger started.

"Yessir?"

"The list of benefits and reasons?" Perry made a little _go on now_ gesture. The young man grinned.

"Oh, right!" He looked straight at Kiku, choosing to fix him with those too-blue eyes as he spoke. "The world is a really amazing place, you see! Ever since I started traveling, every day's been exciting, really, with so many people and cultures and all that to explore, and you're missing all that by keeping your country closed!"

"And the reasons?" Perry asked, rather pointedly.

"We've come to make friends with your whales!" the steward exclaimed. The other young man elbowed him sharply, and Kiku could have sworn he heard a hissed, _"Alfred!"_

"A-and," he continued, looking sheepish, "we also want the ports of Shimoda and Hakodate to be opened for American supply and coal stops, we want a nice embassy built in Shimoda, we want you to trade with us at the ports we agree on, we want you to assist shipwrecked American sailors and return them to the proper American officials, and we want American sailors to be free to move about in the treaty ports, so no arresting them or anything, because they're our citizens and not yours. And also whaling rights."

He finished this practiced speech with a dazzling grin, but Kiku didn't really notice as the weight of the demands impressed themselves on him. The translator finished slowly, as if he too couldn't believe the sheer audacity of the Americans to ask so much, in exchange for so little.

"Are they mad?" one of the senior delegates asked, incredulously.

"Go home," Kiku replied flatly.

The translator, good as he was, gave a nervous grin. "It's lovely to have grand hopes and dreams, but please pursue them in your own country. Japan is not yet ready at this time."

"Try the Japanese diversion tactic," Kiku whispered to the translator.

The man nodded. "This esteemed delegate wishes us to put this discussion aside for a moment. Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, I've never had Japanese tea before!" the blue-eyed American exclaimed, but his friend again elbowed him. "A-actually, I believe this discussion does need to be continued, tea can wait."

But the discussions didn't get any farther that day. The Americans continued insisting that the Japanese agree, while Kiku and his delegates insisted that tea was a wonderful beverage, and that the rock garden out back was truly too beautiful to miss.

Kiku would have also consulted the Emperor on this manner, but Mito grumpily informed him that he was leading another prayer session at the Imperial Court. Aizu then tried to convince Kiku to drop the obstructionist tactics, causing Mito to mutter something about driving the Americans out instead, which led to an argument that didn't stop until Osaka had shown up and dragged them off.

As it was, Kiku just wanted to go back to his blankets and quiet house in Kyoto, but that future seemed more and more unlikely.

_V~-~-~V_

Twenty-two days and counting had passed since their return to Japan, and still no agreement had been reached. Alfred had given up after the first week, after finding that the meetings were taking up the time he wanted for his personal quest.

And it was on the twenty-third day that Charlie found him standing on the edge of a dock, with a whale not more than a few feet away.

He stopped and stared, not willing to get any closer to the frankly massive creature. "What are you doing? And what is _that_ doing?"

"Hey Charlie!" Alfred exclaimed. "I made friends with a whale!"

Charlie sputtered, "You… you actually did it? Befriended a whale?"

"Yep! I tried imitating that girl I was telling you about from San Francisco, and it was pretty difficult, but I think he likes me now!" He paused for a moment, glancing at the animal. "I think I'll name him Whale."

"How original," Charlie replied, rather faintly.

"Thanks!"

Charlie rolled his eyes, then stopped, glancing out across the water instead. "You know… if you really wanted friends so badly… I kind of already am one of yours, at least, I like to consider myself your friend… and I know I can be nasty sometimes, but maybe I could at least…?"

A soldier arrived at just that moment, stopping his run abruptly and standing ramrod-straight. "Mr. Jones, Mr. Wetherby! Commodore Perry had just concluded negotiations, and commands your presence for the signing of the treaty!"

Alfred glanced at Charlie, then back at the approaching soldier, his glasses glinting in the morning sun. "We'll be right there!"

Turning back to Charlie, he grinned. "That's a nice idea and all Charlie, but… nah!" Alfred exclaimed, then took off after the soldier.

"Bastard!" Charlie called after him, before breaking into a run to follow.

"After all," Alfred yelled, as if he hadn't heard, "you're practically my nephew or something! We're already automatically friends!"

Charlie couldn't stop himself as the scowl melted off his face, replaced with a tiny smile. "Bastard," he repeated, but quieter and with no venom. Then he thought about the whole statement. "Wait, Alfred! Why am I the nephew when we're the same age?! You've no seniority at all!"

_V~-~-~V_

The expedition lingered for a few months after Perry finished negotiations, mainly to figure out the particulars and precise regulations that the agreement entailed. Meanwhile, he'd put Alfred in charge of gifts, who he was to distribute to a Kiku Honda and anyone with him.

He'd met Kiku Honda privately, and the Japanese man had looked surprised when Alfred had announced his name, but had hidden it so quickly under a mask of politeness that Alfred was altogether unsure that he'd seen it at all. Regardless, he felt a bit like a street vendor as he displayed the gifts.

"And _these_," he declared, holding up a mesh bag, "are _potatoes_. Easy to grow, keep through the winter, and edible in almost everything!"

There was a collective noise of acknowledgement from the knot of delegates around him. Behind them, Charlie was teaching members of the Imperial Court how to operate a miniature locomotive on a track, and various others were poking curiously at a telegraph, farming implements, stoves, and a telescope. One of the princes was even flipping through a copy of _Birds of America._

"And _this_," Alfred continued, "is tea. You've already got that, of course, but maybe you've never tasted _American_ tea."

"More like European, really," Charlie interjected, his job with the locomotive complete judging by the court member currently making his way around the tracks on top of it, ceremonial robes trailing behind him.

The man Alfred had been introduced to as Kiku Honda made his way forward. "We too have gifts to present," he announced through a translator, and soon the American delegates were all crowding around samples of Japanese food, handicrafts, silk, and porcelain.

Alfred snapped open one of the Japanese umbrellas, twirling it over his head. Charlie poked it, and announced his surprise that it wasn't made of cloth. "You think those slats would let the water through," he wondered aloud.

The Japanese had become considerably friendlier once the agreements were made, and once okayed by the government, even the citizens grew more enthusiastic.

All told, Alfred was rather reluctant to leave the country and Whale behind, but Perry had begun to look a bit under the weather from all the stress, and they were supposed to leave for Hong Kong any day.

It was early summer of 1854 when the expedition finally departed, bound first for Okinawa and then for the east coast of America.

_V~-~-~V_

Honda Kiku was exhausted. "One does not simply get used to all of these visitors after living so long alone," he confided in Osaka, before attempting to retire once more to the comfort of his dimly lit room and warm blankets.

But it seemed like no sooner than he had gotten comfortable that Osaka arrived at his door again.

"Another delegation is here, Honda-san."

"Americans again?" While Kiku hadn't much liked the excitement (he was getting too old for such things, after all), the Americans had turned out to be nice enough, once they got what they wanted.

"No, Honda-san."

"Then send them away."

"I'm sorry, Honda-san, but they simply won't go until they receive a treaty like the Americans."

"Who are they, then?" he asked, extracting himself from his bed and donning nicer clothes.

"The Russians, Honda-san."

Kiku could hear the grimace in Osaka's voice, but all he could think of was the intimidating representation of an empire who was sure to be at his door.

"Is there a tall man wearing a scarf among them?"

"I believe that Russia-san has indeed returned."

Spirit deflating, Kiku pushed open the sliding door and made his way to the receiving hall, Osaka trailing behind him.

And there he was, standing immediately as Kiku entered, rising to his full height, violet eyes twinkling in that sweetly sinister fashion that so few could come close to imitating.

"_Privyet,_ Mister Honda. It is a pleasure to see you again. You see, I heard that you gave little Matthew a treaty, and I cannot let him have all the fun, yes?"

_V~-~-~V_

They were nearly home when Alfred first noticed that something was wrong.

He'd been feeling slightly ill lately, but attributed it to not having been at sea for a while, but it had persisted, a nauseous feeling growing in his stomach that refused to go away no matter how much fresh air Charlie advised him to inhale.

And now, just below the angry burn scar that still knotted over his heart, was a faint pink line, broken in places, but stretching resolutely straight across his stomach.

It had been growing in intensity recently, and Alfred could no longer just assume it was from sleeping awkwardly or a bad mattress spring.

He just hoped it was nothing serious, even as a tickle of foreboding began to grow in the back of his mind, slowly itching its way forward as they drew closer and closer to home.

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Whew! Another slightly-longer-than-average chapter, as a double thank-you for all of your kind wishes!<p>

History, as always:

Perry basically put _himself_ in isolation, refusing to see anyone but the Emperor, and turning away all delegates, gifts, and polite requests to remove himself from Japanese waters. But while doing that, he also had the Marines practice at battle stations every day, as a sort of _hey-look-we've-got-all-these-guns _kind of intimidation.  
>The Americans used whale oil in candles and whale bone for corsets, and they'd basically depleted their own whale population to next to nothing, so they went after Japan's instead. They also wanted all of the things mentioned, and the demands (after years of not listening to anyone) were rather unbelievable for the Japanese.<br>The two princes really did initiate the meeting, and a special building was built for the presentation of President Millard Fillmore's (whose birthday is also January 7th, by the way) letters of friendship and list of benefits that trade with the US would offer, in which he basically ordered the Japanese to give in or they would be shot.  
>The Americans did give the Japanese a few months break of them while they stayed in Hong Kong, but returned sooner than expected when news of France and Russia arrived. Neither of those countries was given access to the country at that time.<br>The negotiations between Kiku and Alfred, as well as the whale scene, are basically canon, with a few of my own additions, so credit to the amazing Himaruya for those scenes.  
>Mito and Aizu are two Japanese clans who have personifications in canon as well. In the time of the Shogunate, they functioned rather like American states do now, except without the democracy.<br>The gifts given by both sides are all real, as is the account of members of the Imperial Court riding around on the miniature locomotive.  
>Commodore Perry did take ill on the return journey. He was known to suffer from severe arthritis, and died in 1858 of rheumatism that had spread to the heart, as well as complications of gout.<br>Quite soon after the Americans left, the Russians immediately also used intimidation to get their own treaty with Japan. France was flat-out refused in their second attempt.

And if any of you caught both of the small _Finding Nemo_ and _Lord of the Rings_ references, I will bake you a metaphorical cookie.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next chapter, I (honestly and truly this time) promise the prelude to the American Civil War will arrive. I hope you enjoyed seeing Japan, Russia, and China, because they won't be involved for a while as the focus of this story narrows again.

Thank you all for reading, and as always, if you've any questions or comments, please don't hesitate to review!


	29. Springfield

Ach, it took to long again. There goes one New Year's resolution.

Many thanks to Natsuyuki, ninja82, skyspottedshadow, PieIsAwesome8234, Aqua Cahill, 11pink45, blueorgray1236, MyJen, jayiel, ryuketsuki, Hinagiku Flower, flying-chipmunk, SherryPin, Ms AJ Ninja, Aquarius-Otter, Miakotsu band of Seven, Verachime, EnglandXChinaForever, The Cloud's Essence, Melody-chii, seenlee93, Khelc-sul Renai, Eu, GreatNameHuh, forsakensanctuary, and three more anons for all your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Ita-chan18, frogandrabbitsox, hollyivy7, FlyingMintBunny21, irish8888, Carolyn Magaellan, Urania Lycoris, PrincessSaphire1, Izfish, ShivaVixen, BronzeButterfly18, Reta McClain, KingdomArtemisHetalia, RedLink101, and again to Natsuyuki, ninja82, jayiel, Melody-chii, Khelc-sul Renai, and forsakensanctuary for your alerts and favorites!<p>

Moving forth to the Civil War prelude, I hope you enjoy!  
>I disclaim and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>Charlie was wringing his hands again, staring into the distance over the side of the wagon, and he craned his neck every once in a while to see around the driver instead.<p>

Alfred watched his friend for a few minutes more, before giving a small sigh and pulling his glasses off his face. After rubbing as much of the dust as he could away, he put them back on. Charlie still looked pensive.

"What're you still so nervous about? I thought we'd cleared everything up at that last stop," Alfred asked, feigning nonchalance.

Charlie just shrugged in exasperation. "I don't know! If I did, maybe I could fix it!"

"Why don't you just tell me about your family? I've only really heard about Marcy… I've got to be prepared to meet all of them, you know!"

"S'not much to tell…" Charlie muttered.

"Go on."

Charlie quirked a smile, finally pausing in his hand-wringing. "Well, there's my parents, Peter and Helen… they're both pretty nice. Father's still pretty active as a lawyer, even though he's getting old. Mother had a bout of cholera a few years back and is still a bit shaky, but she's doing all right."

"Any siblings?" Alfred prodded.

"One brother. His name's Josiah, named after an uncle or something, he's a bit younger than me. There were a few others, but they all died really young."

Alfred nodded, urging Charlie to go on. Toddler deaths weren't uncommon even in the middle of the 19th century, despite all the medical advances Alfred had seen in his lifetime, so hearing of them didn't come as much of a surprise.

"Er… that's about it for my family. You might meet some of Father's lawyer friends too, they come over for dinner occasionally."

Alfred glanced at the sky as the sun moved past noon. "How much longer do you think it'll take to get to Springfield?"

"I don't know," Charlie answered, "I've never been very far out of town before this trip."

"And you decided to solve that by traveling the world? Bit much excessive for a first try, don't you think?" Alfred laughed.

"I wasn't planning on all that!"

Slowly the farmlands around them began to grow more populous, fields morphing seamlessly into country roads and villages, and then the city of Springfield itself. The wagon driver they'd hitched the ride with let them off there, and the pair continued on foot to the opposite side of town, where the Wetherby residence was.

Charlie was growing more excited (or possibly nervous, Alfred could no longer quite distinguish the two) until they finally stopped outside a quaint, whitewashed little building at the edge of the town proper.

Alfred's heartbeat pounded in his ears as they drew up to the front porch. He barely registered Charlie's, "don't worry, I'm sure you'll get on with my folks just fine," before Charlie had knocked and the door was opening—

And there was a boy, built like a twig and about Alfred's height with mousy brown curls, standing in the doorframe and gaping.

From inside the house came a voice. "Josiah? Who is it?" A woman emerged from behind the boy, wiping her hands on an apron. "Josiah…?"

Her eyes moved beyond the boy to the pair on the porch, and immediately focused on Charlie. Her hand darted over her mouth.

"Charlie… Charlie, you've come home!"

Charlie was abruptly all smiles as he allowed himself to be gathered in the shorter woman's arms. "I'm back, Mother. Miss me?"

"Of course I did, you stupid, stupid, son! You were supposed to be gone only a few months, a year at most, and then I have to hear from _Marcy_ that you've decided to go traipsing about the world because you won't write to your own mother!" Charlie drew back, but though her words were scolding, she had tears in her eyes.

Finally looking over her son's shoulder, she noticed Alfred, who had taken a couple steps away to give the family space. "And who might this be?"

"Oh, this is Alfred. I met him in San Francisco, and really, you should blame _him_ for the whole Japan thing. Not my fault."

The woman swatted Charlie's head. "You are perfectly capable of making your own decisions, Charles. There is no need to blame poor Mr…?"

"Jones, ma'am, Alfred F Jones," Alfred finished, giving her his most winning smile and a slight bow.

"Well aren't you the perfect gentleman! Unlike Charles here, who can't even be bothered to give a proper introduction. I am Helen Wetherby, and this is Josiah, my son." The other boy, who was still looking a bit in shock, gave a little wave.

"…And Mother? I'm going to fetch Marcy and have her over for dinner, if that's all right."

"Yes, yes, go find that darling fiancée of yours," Helen said. "But bring your things in first, and would you care for something to eat, Mr. Jones? Though you'll be staying for dinner, of course."

Alfred glanced at Charlie for confirmation, but he was already running off down the road in what was presumably the direction of Marcy's house. It then struck Alfred as stupid to not have had any idea what he was going to be doing for food and a bed, or where he was going after he was done here… but this was a Wetherby house. He felt fairly certain that he'd be all right.

… As long as that Josiah kid stopped looking at him so strangely. Really, it was growing unnerving.

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred tried to help Mrs. Wetherby out, he truly did. He supposed it wasn't his fault that the wood-splitting stump in their backyard was weakened from years of wood-splitting occurring on its surface, or that the metal tongs were cheaply constructed, or that the family cat had decided to scratch his face off.

Mrs. Wetherby stared in bewilderment at the hole Alfred's elbow had punched in the wall that divided the main room from the downstairs bedroom, the two pieces of metal that had been tongs dangling from her hands.

"I suppose we'll just have to hang a picture over it," she said weakly as she plucked a splinter of wood from the hole.

Alfred was apologizing profusely, but Helen decided to blame the cat. "You were surprised," she replied with a small smile, "and doubtless this wall was weak from rainwater or the like. Please don't pay it any mind, Mr. Jones."

But Alfred's nerves were sparking, his mind unable to focus, and his use of strength went unmonitored. He was still attempting to apologize when Charlie returned, a petite brunette in tow.

"Alfred, meet the lovely Marceline McKinley," he gave a grand sweep of his arm in the direction of the brunette, "and Marcy dearest, Alfred."

"It's nice to meet the lady I've heard so much about," Alfred grinned, "to put it mildly."

"Same to you, Mr. Jones."

"Alfred please, miss."

"Then it's Marcy to you, Alfred." She smiled prettily and gave a mocking curtsy.

"I'm sure you two'll get along just great," Charlie interrupted, a bit snappishly, putting an arm over Marcy's shoulders. "Now is Father back yet?"

"He hasn't yet returned," Mrs. Wetherby called from the kitchen.

"Probably bringing some lawyer friend, then," Charlie muttered.

Alfred was just calming down, laughing at Charlie's attempts to entertain Marcy while she attempted to help Mrs. Wetherby who was attempting to cook dinner as Josiah attempted to blend into the woodwork in the corner when the front door opened again.

"Helen? Mr. Lincoln is back in town, I've brought him for supper—"

Alfred turned slowly, the voice familiar even if it had dropped a bit in pitch since he'd last heard it—

"_I _said_ President Jefferson wants to see you! And when he sends me to find you, all I see is you sleeping on your paperwork!"_

Good gods, his eyes still looked like hers, even if the face had crumpled a bit around them, even if the once-blond eyebrows above them were now streaked with grey. And oh, he could hear his heartbeat again, even if his nerves seemed out of place—

"Alfred?!"

A weak smile. "Long time no see, Peter."

The room was dead silent, the faces around Alfred betraying their bewilderment, even the tall, gaunt man who had come in behind Peter.

Josiah was actually the first to speak, comprehension dawning on his face as he exclaimed, "You're _that_ Alfred Jones! I knew your name sounded familiar, Father always mentions you when he talks about Grandma Wetherby!"

But Alfred ignored him, seeing only Peter. Considerably older, his hair was thinning in places and his shoulders slumped slightly, but he looked fairly fit for someone around fifty.

And he certainly didn't look like he was going to speak anytime soon, so Alfred took the initiative, his nerves still going haywire as the _what ifs_ swirled among the memories. "You never told me you got married. Where was my invitation? Does your family have something against me attending weddings?"

"… I couldn't find you after the funeral," Peter said slowly, not seeming to notice Alfred's faint flinch.

"Wait, wait—since when do you know my father?" Charlie exclaimed, gripping Alfred by the shoulder and giving him a shake.

Alfred turned away from Peter, focusing instead on his friend of the last year and then some. "I wasn't entirely sure he was your father, I mean, there're surely more Wetherby's in this country, and I didn't know if he'd told you—"

He abruptly whirled back to Peter. "Was it Paul?"

Peter nodded. "He explained everything before he died." He paused. "When did you get glasses?"

Alfred ran his hand through his hair, a short laugh escaping, but before he could reply, Mrs. Wetherby announced that supper was ready, they could catch up later, and wasn't Mr. Lincoln hungry?

"How impolite of all of you to leave a guest standing in the doorway!" she chastised, waving the broken tongs at her husband.

_V~-~-~V_

Thus supper began in an awkward spurt, Marcy and Mrs. Wetherby sitting last at one end of the table while Mr. Lincoln was placed in the seat of honor at the head. He was introduced to Alfred as Abraham Lincoln, a friend of Peter's from when they'd worked together as lawyers, and Alfred concluded that this was just a day for introductions of all kinds.

And with four lawyers in the vicinity, talk inevitably turned to politics, even as Alfred continued to watch Peter out of the corner of his eye.

"… and with the Kansas-Nebraska act passed last year, the civil war there will surely incite others in Washington to choose a side soon, don't you agree?" Peter asked, directing is question at the senator.

Abraham Lincoln was a very tall man, a good four inches or so taller than even Alfred, and one of the only people who had ever made him feel short. His face was craggy, his sharp cheekbones making it almost seem hollow in its unnatural thinness, but his eyes had that spark of intelligence and his voice that deep, honest quality (not to mention slight Kentucky accent) that made Alfred trust him implicitly.

"I should hope not," he replied somberly. "I do not believe anyone wants to go so far as to divide the country more than it already is, but the issue of slavery remains a morally controversial one."

"And what do you think?" Peter continued, his voice lowering as he glanced at the women.

"I find myself siding with the new Republican party politically, but morally…?" He sighed. "I feel that every man should have a chance at their own freedom, and I cannot help but hate the institution of slavery." Lincoln turned to Alfred, who was seated to his left. "What about you, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred opened his mouth, about to respond that _of course slavery is wrong, it's mass forced labor and brutality, and hasn't every other country already taken steps to abolish it_ but something made him pause.

_The economy, _that something whispered in the back of his mind, _America has one of the world's greatest farming systems, our exports are on par with the Caribbean colonies._

_Morally wrong. America isn't as free as our leaders claim when a large portion of our citizens are enslaved._

_But is it any fairer to take away peoples' property and livelihood, or deny them the rights to said property simply because of where they live?_

_Wrong._

_Right._

"Alfred?"

Alfred's attention snapped back to the table, where Peter and Lincoln were still looking at him, expectantly but with a bit of concern.

"I—I don't know," he answered, his gut twisting as he said it, half of him rebelling at the admittance and demanding that he make up his mind one way or the other.

Peter looked a bit surprised at that. "Oh. I would have expected you to side firmly with the abolitionists, Alfred."

_That's what Jefferson wanted, even in 1776._

_Times have changed._

Alfred shrugged. "I guess I'd rather it not expand…" he couldn't imagine slavery in California, "but I don't really know what would happen to our economy without it, and there are an awful lot of people who wouldn't be able to cope with their livelihood being taken away."

Because that would divide America, and if there was one thing Alfred simply _couldn't_ bear to imagine, it was America not being America, land of the free and home of the brave, just the way it was.

Lincoln nodded thoughtfully. "Slavery I believe is a monstrous injustice. A divided America is one I do not wish to live in, but if that is what it takes to open the eyes of the people…" he trailed off grimly.

Engrossed as Peter and Lincoln were as their conversation resumed, and as attached as Charlie was to Marcy, Josiah seemed to be the only one who noticed Alfred's shudder at Lincoln's words.

Funny, how it was only then that Alfred realized that the young man's eyes were that familiar shade of blue.

_V~-~-~V_

Peter had sat the family down that evening after Lincoln had departed for his own home and attempted to explain Alfred to them, starting with an uncle he'd never met named Zachariah and moving forward. Alfred had stayed mostly silent, except to correct him every once in a while as he listened to a retelling of a good fourth of his life.

Alfred had tried to answer their questions as best he could, even when they asked _why_. Shoving away the memories of witchcraft accusations and a false illness, he politely explained that he really did not know.

More than a little on edge thanks to the stares that followed him about the house and not wanting to impose on the Wetherby family for too long, Alfred had moved into a boarding house in Springfield. But when the proprietor moved out to Nebraska with the wave of other abolitionist types, Peter insisted that the spare bedroom was perfect for him, and that they definitely had enough food even for him.

Alfred stayed in Springfield because he couldn't really think of any other place he really cared to be, his technical only family was there, and Lincoln had offered him a job as a part-time assistant of sorts. Just for paperwork and such, not actually assisting on cases (Lincoln preferred to handle those by himself, and his track record was admittedly impressive). Personally, Alfred thought that the murder case of 1858 turned out to be the most impressive of all, especially when Lincoln had produced a Farmer's Almanac in front of the courtroom to disprove an opposing witness's evidence.

It was that same year that the Republican Party nominated Lincoln for Senator of Illinois, and he delivered a speech that Alfred would remember for years:

"A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved—I do not expect the house to fall—but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other."

The man Lincoln was running against, Stephen Douglas, was the current Democratic Senator. "I've scheduled joint debates with him," Lincoln told Alfred one day. "You would best pack your bags; we've a trip around the state ahead of us."

The speech in Ottawa drew heavy newspaper coverage and a great number of people, but Freeport, Quincy, and Alton were packed, with people even from neighboring states filling the crowds.

"Slavery is an issue for everyone, not just the legislature of Illinois," Lincoln had calmly stated.

"But it looks like a prize fight out there!" Alfred exclaimed, before adjusting his stiff formal jacket. "There's got to be a few thousand people out there! This is absolutely the crazy!" He shook his head, glancing sideways at the stoic taller man. "With Douglas as the incumbent, I don't think you're going to beat him."

"If the Illinois legislature votes to distort the values of the founding fathers and undermine the values of republicanism," Lincoln quipped, "I will not protest. I am simply giving them a better option."

Alfred shrugged. "It's too bad the people don't vote."

"And turn Illinois into another Kansas? I disagree."

"Maybe on less volatile issues, then. It's not as if they aren't educated on politics, if this crowd is anything to go by."

"It's all or nothing where voting is concerned, Mr. Jones."

Alfred huffed. "You should just run for President if you're so 'all or nothing'."

Lincoln gave him a small smile. "I have to be nominated first for that to ever happen, and such a responsibility seems almost overwhelming."

"Nonsense. You'd do a bang-up job as a President, I know you would."

The crowd outside broke into applause as Douglas took the stage, the first to speak as usual. Alfred sat down.

"We've got an hour to wait for him to finish up. Do you want to polish up your counterargument for Douglas's Freeport Doctrine?"

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred returned to Springfield after Lincoln's defeat, giving the man some space to write his post-campaign book of debate texts, because that sounded downright boring. Instead, he found himself plunged into the flurry of wedding planning that Charlie and Marcy had begun.

"So wait… you two were never formally engaged until _now?!_" Alfred asked. "I thought you said you were when you showed me that handkerchief, and everyone knows you've talked about it enough!"

"Well…" Charlie shuffled his feet. "I kinda hinted at it, but I was planning on getting a ring with the Gold Rush money, and we all know how _that_ worked out."

"You're an idiot."

"Says the guy who makes friends with whales and nearly screws up our Japanese diplomacy with your stupidity!"

"Hey, I make a fine diplomat, thank you very much. And _someone_ needs to be friends with whales! Besides, that Kiku guy didn't have a problem with it."

"That's probably because he was too polite to say so!"

The newspapers had reported Perry's death the year before, due to complications of rheumatism, but his book was in print. Alfred had purchased a copy and found it rather dull, but kept it anyway. Charlie had refused to read "anything written by that bastard" and attempted to burn it. Marcy had promptly smacked him for his language and returned the book to Alfred.

"Anyway," Charlie continued, "we haven't really set a date yet, but we figure it'd be good to get things sorted ahead of time, and, er… I was kinda hoping you'd agree to be the best man, if you want."

"It'd be nice to finally attend _one_ of your family weddings," Alfred mused. "But I don't know… I mean, I'd have to dress up and stand for who _knows_ how long…"

"Fine, don't then!" Charlie exclaimed.

"Only joking, Charlie," Alfred laughed. "I'd like that a lot. But are you sure you want your uncle up there with you?"

Charlie started at that, and Alfred remembered why Charlie was his favorite Wetherby to just talk to: he generally forgot that Alfred was anything more than some slightly strange person he'd found in San Francisco.

"With the Pony Express open and that transatlantic cable, you could feasibly ask anyone," Alfred added.

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "But you're closer and I can ask Father to ask you," he smirked.

Alfred mock-groaned, because he still found it harder than usual to refuse Emeline's son. "Aw, I guess I have no choice then! But do me a favor?"

"What?" Charlie's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Get that damn cat of yours under control, it scratched my face again. One of these days, it's going to get my glasses."

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>That's that for today... I hope you enjoyed it!<br>Please excuse my lateness (again) as I have been both busy and sick. Not a good combination.

This chapter was also more of a setup for things to come, establishing historical context, Lincoln and Alfred working together, the new Wetherbys, and the wedding bit, all of which will be important soon enough!

History-history-history-  
>Abraham Lincoln was born in Kentucky, then moved to Ohio, then to Illinois, where he set up his successful law practice. He was a congressman for a few years before returning to Springfield, and though he identified as a Whig, he was the Republican party nominee for the Senate in 1858 (when Senate seats were still voted on by state legislatures instead of the general population). The speech mentioned is part of the real House Divided speech that Lincoln gave upon being nominated, and is the source of many famous Lincoln quotes.<br>Among Lincoln's most-known criminal trial was as he defended William "Duff" Armstrong who was on trial for the murder of James Metzker. An opposing witness claimed to have seen the crime by moonlight, but Lincoln produced a Farmer's Almanac that showed the moon at too low an angle, which would drastically reduce the visibility, thus casting doubt on the witness's claims.  
>The Kansas-Nebraska act overrode the Missouri Compromise in that it allowed the people of the two states to decide for themselves whether they would become free or slave states. As a result, both had a huge population jump because both the pro- and anti-slavery people wanted another state on their side, so they attempted to swing the votes. There was a (more minor) civil war in Kansas as a result.<br>The Lincoln-Douglas debates are among the most famous in American history because they were mainly about slavery, which was the big issue of the time, attracting out-of-state attention and huge media coverage. Lincoln, while not running on an abolitionist platform, didn't want slavery spreading any farther and accused Douglas of distorting the founding fathers' ideals of equality, while Douglas accused Lincoln of going against the Dred Scott decision (more on that later). The debates went in the format of a 60-min speech by the first candidate, then a 90-min speech by the second, followed by a 30-min closer by the first. In the end, Douglas won, and Lincoln published a book containing edited-down versions of the speeches, which later helped him on his way to Presidential election.  
>The Republican Party gained strength around this time (and meant something much different than it does today). It was supported by the anti-slavery North and people like Lincoln, while the Democrats (also much different from today) supported the expansion of slavery in the west.<br>The Freeport Doctrine is basically the right for new states admitted to the Union to be able to choose whether or not to be free or slave- the Missouri Compromise previously had banned all slavery west of its borders, but the Kansas-Nebraska act ruined that.  
>Perry did write a book about his experiences in Japan, published in 1857, before he died in 1858 of a mix of rheumatism and various other ailments.<p>

Phew. Hope this chapter wasn't too dull, with all the history and then just some personal things to clear up. But now it's late, and my nose is still stuffy, and I have to wake up early tomorrow, so that's all for now!

As always, if you have any thoughts or questions and the time to put them in writing, please don't hesitate to drop a review!


	30. Election and Escalation

Hello all, it's been too long again!  
>(If you care, I've had a seriously difficult time writing this chapter for reasons unknown, and most of my classes had papers due recently and if <em>that<em> didn't just make me want to spend more time writing...)

Thanks very much to ninja82, EnglandXChinaForever, ryuketsuki, Khelc-sul Renai, SakariWolfe, jayiel, seenlee93, MyJen, A Great Fan (you're very much welcome!), icefox425, Ali-Kun, and Flamingspain for all of your reviews!  
>Thanks as well to NekoMushi, madparrot, OntheGales, Matron, . , Alyssa12334, NoxLupine, Daffodil Moon, PicotheChicken, xxkurotenshixx, . .desperately (nice name), and again to icefox425, Ali-Kun, and Flamingspain for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On with the chapter, again a bit longer than usual. Perhaps I'll work up to making these around 4,000 words each instead of 3,000.

* * *

><p>When Alfred woke, the Wetherby family's main room was still the inky black of the very early morning. He sat, shifting his weight on the pallet that had been provided for him as a bed, trying to calm his erratic breathing.<p>

Clammy palms clenched the sheets. The nightmares hadn't been so bad since 1814, when he'd dreamt of fire whenever he shut his eyes.

Now, he couldn't remember his dreams, but he was sure they were terrible.

Uneasily, he lay back down, but falling asleep again proved to be an exercise in futility. Reaching to the side of his bed, he scrambled in the darkness for the candle he knew would be there. Alfred lit it with still-shaking fingers, then made for his trunk. If he couldn't sleep, he sure wasn't going to waste the hours.

The papers he wanted were right on top: pamphlets, reports, newspaper clippings, even something in German (unreadable to him, he didn't know why he'd been given it), and lists upon lists of numbers and quotes and survey results: all things necessary for Lincoln's campaign.

If Alfred had known that running for President entailed this much _work, _he would've quit this job after Lincoln lost the Congress election and moved to Vermont. Or maybe Maine. He could hide in Maine and become a lobster fisherman and avoid this whole mess his people were getting themselves into.

But as he set up his pen and ink, he couldn't help but wonder how everyone else was doing, in _their_ places so conveniently far from political turmoil. Oregon had recently become a state, so it wasn't entirely exempt, but surely George and Lucretia, at least, would be paying no attention to the affairs of the country. And Sam had his farm to worry about. Olive, though, she might care.

And Yao, off in China. The last Alfred had heard of that particular country was when the US had signed some Treaty of T-something, ending some war that was pretty much Europe's fault and concern. Hopefully Yao wouldn't get too involved, but Alfred had never pictured his giraffe-obsessed and more than slightly strange friend actually _fighting_ something bigger than a squirrel.

Alfred sighed lightly, putting down his pen again. Concentration was impossible when everything came back to _fighting._ Ever since that radical abolitionist, Brown, and his raid on Harper's Ferry, abolition had really been all America had been concerned with.

_Lincoln will stop it. He'll solve things once he's elected._

Alfred nodded sharply into the darkness. Yes. Lincoln would solve this mess, with his quiet determination and damn good speeches.

_But what if he doesn't? The southern states promise secession if he is elected President, and don't you know what comes of that?_

_V~-~-~V_

The date was November 6th, 1860, and Alfred was already awake and dressed when the cannons boomed across Springfield. Almost immediately, feet could be heard running down the house's creaky wooden staircase.

"What's all this racket?" Charlie demanded, glaring at Alfred as if he were the cause. "Woke me right up! Can't anyone get a decent rest around here?"

Helen Wetherby appeared behind him, a faded periwinkle-colored robe thrown over her nightgown. "It do hope it isn't those people with torchlights who made all that fuss last night. They need their sleep!"

She then smiled at Alfred. "At least you don't have any more work to do, dear. You've seemed so tired lately, with all those extra lines on your face unbecoming of such a nice young man."

Mrs. Wetherby patted his cheek affectionately before turning towards the kitchen. "Charles, go fetch some eggs and put some water on to boil. Now that everyone in this county is awake, folks will be wanting breakfast."

Charlie let out a long-suffering sigh. "See, Alfred? Even my mother likes you better than me. Life just isn't fair when you're around. _You_ go get the eggs, why dontcha."

Alfred found himself having to force a smile. "Sure thing," he replied, not hesitating to walk out the back door just to breathe some fresh air.

Election days always made him twitchy. Even more so because after all the long months of paperwork and listening to speeches, he _was_ rather emotionally invested in this particular Presidential campaign.

Though truthfully, Lincoln hadn't made any speeches or formal public appearances at all in a long while, choosing instead to keep a low profile and communicate his goals through papers, pamphlets, and friends of friends. In his eyes, the fewer things he said that could be misconstrued as promises, the better.

Alfred returned with the eggs to the kitchen and watched Mrs. Wetherby make breakfast. Josiah helped, giving Alfred's seat at the table a wide berth as he did so, and perpetually shooting looks at his older brother, who made no secret of how "unmanly" he thought helping one's mother in the kitchen was.

"At least it's better than sitting on your behind all day," Josiah retorted. "Even the freeloader," he jerked a thumb at Alfred, "has a job worth doing."

Seeing Charlie about to reply in a likely explosive fashion, Helen interrupted loudly, "Yes, speaking of which—don't you have to go see Mr. Lincoln today, Alfred? I heard he was going to be at the Statehouse all day, greeting people, or something of the sort."

"He is," Alfred answered, nodding gratefully as Helen dumped a pile of eggs and potatoes on his plate. "No campaigning, of course, but I'm sure he'll shake his fair share of hands. And I'll be off after breakfast."

"Of course, of course, campaigning on election day would be unseemly," Mrs. Wetherby agreed. "And dress warmly when you go, I felt a bit of a chill yesterday."

Alfred nodded again, finishing his food faster than normal. He felt tempted to ask for more, as hungry as he still was. Josiah was staring again with his special _you-are-such-a-hopelessly-ignorant-freeloader _accusatory expression, but Alfred barged ahead anyway, filling his plate, pretending he didn't notice the glare sharpening exponentially.

"That was great, Mrs. Wetherby," he declared at last, pushing his chair back, "but I really gotta go. Make sure that good-for-nothing Peter of yours goes to vote, okay?"

"He wouldn't miss it for the world!" Helen called after him

"What are we saying about me, now?" a familiar voice asked. Alfred smiled in the direction of the source.

"You've got to vote, Peter."

"Of course I do," the man replied, straightening up and smoothing his graying hair. "As one once in the employ of President Thomas Jefferson, I take great pride in doing my patriotic duty."

"I'll meet you there, then, shall I?"

Peter shook his head. "Of course not, I'm going with you this instant."

"But breakfast—"

Peter grabbed a potato from his wife, biting it with an air of almost-defiance that was entirely out of place, and marched out the door, Alfred trailing behind.

"… And I thought you were going for that refined old gentleman look," Alfred muttered, loud enough that only Peter could hear, rather than the many others out and about on the Springfield streets.

"Not if you aren't," Peter retorted, taking another bite of his potato. "You're not even wearing a proper suit; just how are you going to get people to believe you actually belong in that office with Mr. Lincoln?"

Alfred waved his hand flippantly. "No matter, everyone recognizes me anyway. And you know how much I hate suits." Tugging his favorite woolen jacket tighter, he smirked at Peter. "You, on the other hand, were always such a stuck-up kind of guy, wearing those waistcoats like you were born in one."

They continued the rest of the way to the Statehouse in relative silence, the crowd around them thickening the closer they got. Music played from wagons that roamed the streets, giving the whole thing an oddly celebratory atmosphere.

Even Alfred had to elbow his way up the steps of the Statehouse to where Lincoln was standing, surrounded by fellow party members and supporters, shaking hands with every other person and still managing to smile good-naturedly.

Alfred snuck up beside him as Peter continued to struggle against the crowd. "So, how's the day gone so far, sir?"

"Just fine, Mr. Jones. I might have strained a muscle earlier, though."

"Alfred, call me Alfred, I've told you ten thousand times. And what were you doing earlier?"

"They asked for a demonstration of my rail-splitting skills."

"Still playing up that backcountry-boy angle?"

"Everyone likes an underdog who they can root for as he makes his way to the top."

Alfred grinned a bit at that. "Guess so. That's the honest-to-goodness American dream, right there."

He moved aside to make room for another staff member to speak with Lincoln, determined to observe the crowd in the thick of it, even if his glasses came very close to being knocked off on several occasions. He caught sight of Mrs. Wetherby and Charlie, with Marcy on his arm, later in the day, but Josiah never materialized. Alfred shrugged off his non-appearance and greeted the family before he was summoned by another staff member to hand out ballots to the crowd.

The small knot of Republican higher-ups surrounded Lincoln as he crossed the street to the Sangamon County Courthouse, keeping the crowds at bay. Alfred waited outside as Lincoln cast his vote (not for himself, because that too was unseemly; he would simply abstain from voting in the Presidential election), encouraging others all the while to do their patriotic duty.

"Is Josiah not voting?" Alfred asked Mrs. Wetherby after Charlie and Peter had gone inside. "It was his birthday a few weeks ago, he legally could."

Mrs. Wetherby sighed and smoothed her skirts. "I don't know what's gotten into that boy," she remarked. "He's not been the same for months, I wish he would sort himself out soon. But missing his first election…? He's usually so keen on politics, and what with family friends like Mr. Lincoln you can't hardly _help_ it…"

Alfred patted her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

It was nine o'clock that evening when returns came in full force to the telegraph office, increasingly favorable for Lincoln. Mrs. Wetherby helped host a dinner party at Watson's ice cream and candy store.

As it became clear that Lincoln had won, the crowd of Republicans cheered, Lincoln looking inordinately pleased.

"Excellent work, Mr. President," Alfred said with a grin.

"With all thanks to the staff where it's due, Mr. Jones," the man replied.

Alfred shook his head resignedly at the president-elect's continued use of his surname, but as the crowd grew in exuberance when it was announced that Lincoln had won Springfield itself, he felt oddly detached. It was almost like he wasn't actually participating in the party, continuing to shake hands and greet nameless faces as the world rose and fell around him and the distinct pit of unease in his stomach grew deeper.

_V~-~-~V_

By late winter of the following year, the line across Alfred's stomach was gnarled and enflamed, a bright white slash across red skin. No matter how Helen Wetherby treated it, it wouldn't improve in the slightest, and he took to wearing a bandage around his middle.

But on February first his glasses cracked. It was the left lens, straight down the middle, and though Alfred had barely begun wearing them ten years ago, it felt like he'd lost something intrinsically part of himself.

He no longer worked for Lincoln. He had, after all, only been an assistant to the man as a lawyer, and the President-elect was under some impression that Alfred wanted to stay in Springfield. While the man wasn't wrong, Alfred knew that it was probably time to return to the capital, with or without Lincoln.

Alfred had sat at the kitchen table that following morning, across from Peter. He had watched his face drain of color as he read the morning paper.

"Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas," he breathed. "They're all gone now. What on _earth_do they think they're doing?!"

"They have legal rights to do whatever they want," Josiah spoke up from one end of the table.

"They did, until secession was ruled _illegal_," Charlie replied, shooting a look at his younger brother.

"Please, no politics at breakfast," Mrs. Wetherby said tiredly, in an attempt to diffuse the argument before it began as it always did. Very much like the rest of the states near the border, Illinois was somewhat divided, even if most were on the side of Lincoln.

"They have their own country now," Peter continued, not heeding his wife's warning. "The _Confederate_ States of America, they're calling it."

"Are they serious?" Charlie gaped. Peter nodded, grimly folding his newspaper. Charlie leaned back. "As long as our government's smart enough not to recognize them, we'll be fine."

"And why shouldn't they be recognized?" Josiah interjected again. "Wouldn't that be the best way to avoid fighting?"

"The British didn't recognize _us_ when we rebelled," Alfred reminded, "why would we do likewise for anyone?"

"If this is about preserving the Union, that's a ridiculous notion. The country's too separate already, interests are too different; it's not possible to stay together!"

Alfred's chair crashed to the ground, his palms slammed into the table, and he leveled Josiah with a glare through cracked spectacles icy enough to make the younger man recoil in his seat. "It _is_ possible," he hissed.

"How?" the other snapped, his voice managing to sound courageous even as his knuckles turned white from gripping the sides of his chair.

"Because there's no damn way it _won't._"

Conviction in his heart and certainty in his veins, Alfred straightened. He picked his chair up, setting it back next to the table, and turned to march out the door.

"Where are you going?" That was Peter's voice, confused and concerned. Familiar.

"Washington." Familiar as well, but in a different way.

There was a moment of silence. "Well," Peter spoke again, his voice resigned, "best of luck to you, Alfred." Alfred gave a tiny grin in reply as he opened his trunk and threw his remaining things in, a haphazard mess already.

"You hurry back, yeah?" Charlie added. "You're not allowed to miss my wedding."

"I'll definitely come back."

Though his trunk was full and heavy enough on its own, Alfred hoisted it onto one shoulder in one quick motion. The Wetherby cat hissed from his position in the corner, but let out a tiny whimper as the front door slammed shut.

_V~-~-~V_

"Ah, Mr. Jones! I hadn't expected to see you back quite so soon… to what do I owe the pleasure, as busy as you find me?"

"You're going to Washington soon, right?"

Lincoln frowned, bushy brows furrowing in confusion. "Yes, I am. The inauguration is in a little over a month, after all."

"I'm coming with you."

The President-elect's eyes widened, and his hand reached up to stroke the beard he'd recently started growing at the request of a little girl from New York. She'd said it would make his face look less gaunt (he did have very hollow cheeks), so he'd replied and agreed that yes, it just might. Just two months in, and the beard was already one of his more recognizable attributes.

"I was under the impression that you wanted to stay in Springfield with your relatives. Are you in need of money? I wasn't aware that the family was in any trouble—"

"They aren't, but frankly, this country is in a heap of it and I want to help."

"That's a noble goal, but you're young and intelligent. Surely you don't want to be stuck in some political office, doing paperwork all day?"

"Well, it's not ideal, but I _need_ to get to Washington. Just trust me, please sir."

"I do not really need any more assistants, and I believe the best place for you is here, so I'm going to have to refuse your request."

Alfred nearly growled in frustration, but contented himself with throwing up his hands instead. "You honestly aren't going to let me come?"

"You would be better-suited to staying here," Lincoln said, his voice still infuriatingly calm.

_There's no help for it, then._

"Mr. Lincoln," Alfred began, speaking quietly, hands resting on the other man's desk, "there's more to it. But promise you'll hear me out before you interrupt and tell me I'm insane."

Lincoln's brows furrowed again as the confusion returned to his face. "I do not believe you are insane, Alfred."

"That's… good, then." Alfred ran his hand through his hair. Lincoln made a little _go on_ motion.

"Er… right. So, I can, er, tell what's happening. Anywhere in the country. Not really in depth, you understand, just bad feelings, and sometimes I'll get sick…" Alfred gave a little nervous laugh at Lincoln's skeptical expression.

"So these… feelings… let you know what's happening elsewhere? Are you sure you don't simply get coincidental illnesses and read the newspaper? Sometimes these things come from stress, you know—"

Alfred shook his head vehemently. "No, nothing like that! I've also been around for... a lot longer than I should be. Since the start of everything here."

"Everything?"

"This country! I've lived here since it was just wilderness! And these feelings, they tend to mean something's going to happen, like when I went to Boston back in 1773, or Independence in the '30s—Peter, you know, Peter Wetherby? He got his job at the White House with Jefferson as my replacement when Jefferson sent me west with Lewis and Clark, and we worked together after that."

Lincoln was looking rather pale through his beard, so Alfred paused. "Are you okay, sir?"

"These feelings, what are they telling you now?" Lincoln asked, his voice level.

Alfred swallowed. "That I need to be in Washington, you need to be in Washington—you were meant to win this election, sir. I think you're the only one who can preserve the Union."

Lincoln leaned back in his seat, his hands fidgeting again. "That is an awful lot to take in, Mr. Jones… and if I did not know you, I would dismiss you on the spot and have you committed."

"You're not going to, are you?" Alfred asked warily, taking a quick step back. "Because that'd be really bad for me."

"… You know, I do not think I will." Lincoln paused. "You just seem to be honest, and I've always rather liked that about you; it seems out of character that you would be lying now."

Alfred grinned. "In that case, you're taking this awful well. Most people would usually… go a bit crazy by this point."

"I might imagine so."

"So… can I come to Washington?"

Mr. Lincoln gave a small sigh. "It would seem, Mr. Jones, if your fate is one so inextricably tied to this nation, that even if I went without you, you would find a way to join me."

"Great! When are we leaving? I'm already packed and everything!"

_V~-~-~V_

_April, 1861_

"Josiah—!"

Mrs. Wetherby, dishtowel forgotten by the washboard, grasped at air as her son stepped away.

"No, mother—you are not—you are not convincing me!"

Eyes wilder than she'd ever seen, mousy curls in disarray, Josiah stepped backwards towards the door, his satchel clutched in a white-knuckled grasp.

"But Josiah, think of us! Whatever you feel is wrong, we can sort it out—!"

Even as Mrs. Wetherby cried out, Charlie stood back, face set, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth.

"No, we can't! You're too loyal, you're _all_ too loyal, to that Abraham Lincoln! Don't you see, any of you?! He's destroying this country!"

Peter had one hand on his wife's shoulder, holding her back as he moved forward.

"Josiah, please. You're upsetting your mother. Can we think this through more carefully?"

"Oh believe me, I've thought this through long and hard, and I'm leaving. I'm going somewhere where—where I can make a difference for this country! You let Charlie go, why not me?"

"You're barely an adult, Josiah. And Charlie had a plan—"

"Yeah, one that he abandoned at the drop of a hat to go gallivanting off to _Asia!_"

"Now see here—"

"_Enough!_"

Josiah stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. "As you said, Father, I am an adult, which means I can leave of my own free will. And while this family is still loyal to the wrong side of this _war_ we're getting dragged into, I am going to stay gone."

"You're the one who's wrong here, little brother," Charlie said, voice quiet. "Those Confederate states aren't going to last long, mark my words."

"Oh really? Who did you hear that from?"

"Alfred, of course."

"Because that man you've known for nine years is more trustworthy than your brother."

"At this point? Yes!"

Josiah glared, and spat, "You all are crazy. America will never survive without the South, hell, _Europe_ won't survive. Even if you do win, you'll come begging in the end."

The front door slammed, and Mrs. Wetherby finally broke down.

_Alfred, _Peter wrote that evening, _our family is falling apart, no matter how strong you always said we were. I hope things are better on your end._

Miles away in Washington, DC, a city at the center of the chaos, Alfred crumpled the letter in his shaking hands. He swore he could _hear_ the gunshots echoing in his ears, but he had to look composed; there was an emergency meeting to attend.

_I wish I could say so._

_V~-~-~V_

"_Matthew!"_

Violet eyes jumped up from the book to meet frantic emerald. "Arthur?"

The panic faded, slowly dissolving into worried confusion mirrored on the British man's face. "… Matthew? You're all right."

_Perfectly fine, and that's the problem_. Matthew set his book aside. Of all the places he'd expected to have this conversation, his living room in Ottawa was not one of them. "Yes. Did you expect differently?"

"Well," Arthur said, composing himself quickly and straightening his suit, hiding the evidence that he'd run to be there, "America is in the beginning stages of a civil war, and I… I was worried for you." Green eyes peered closer, as if trying to peel back the set expression on Matthew's face to find the proof they needed. "You… are truly all right?"

"Yes."

"That's… unexpected."

Matthew's hands searched for his pet polar bear out of want for something to hold as his world listed increasingly sideways. He'd told Arthur his suspicions before, that he didn't represent a continent, _couldn't_ represent a continent, because such a thing had never, _ever_ happened and there was no way that _he_, ordinary, and most definitely Canadian Matthew Williams was such a person.

Though he was usually a calm man, Matthew seethed inwardly, gripping Kumajirou's fur tighter. "You've lived through civil war, _Arthur._ Tell me, why is it that I feel no pain, absolutely _nothing at all?_"

Arthur floundered. "I—I don't know, Matthew. I haven't the faintest idea."

"You have no idea, no _inkling_?"

Arthur's expression shifted into something more neutral, his eyes wary. He knew what would come next. "None whatsoever. Would you care to enlighten me, seeing as you clearly do?"

"Stop denying it, Arthur," Matthew hissed. "I've known for years, _years_, and you keep denying it. All of you! You refuse to believe you've made a mistake, refuse to admit that you and all of your friends across an _ocean_ have not one _ounce _of control over what could very well be the most powerful nation in the world!"

Arthur's face was stony. "Stop this nonsense, Matthew. You're North America, pull yourself together and I'm sure we can be logical—"

"_I am being logical!_ And I'm telling you right now, _I'm not North America!_ I'm Canada, just Canada, not 'Canada and America, former British colonial empire'!"

Arthur glanced about, before pulling up a chair and sitting with a loud _thump_. "Well then… if you're absolutely sure—"

"I have never been surer about anything, Arthur."

"In that case," Arthur continued, his already-pale face whitening even further, "we have a country to find." Matthew was about to agree, but Arthur kept going. "And we have absolutely _no idea_ where to begin… they must be older, around your age by now, don't you think? But America's population is bloody huge, not to mention divided in half—how the hell are we supposed to find _anyone_ there?!"

Arthur heaved a shaky sigh and stared upwards, as if Matthew's wooden ceiling held all the answers. "I need a good, strong cup of tea. Or whiskey."

"Oh, no, no alcohol for you," Matthew said quickly. "And it might not be as difficult as all that."

"Why the bloody hell not?" Arthur retorted, eyes snapping back down to glare at Matthew.

The Canadian gave a small smile as he stood, shifting Kumajirou's weight in his arms as he grabbed his coat and scarf from the rack by the door. "Because I have a pretty good idea of where to start."

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>And now, as promised, we see the evidence of the elusive second plot as it materializes on the horizon.<p>

Historical facts first:  
>The Treaty of T-something is actually the Treaty of Tientsin, which ended the first part of the Second Opium War in China. Europe and France were the main parties involved, but the US ran its typical interference.<br>Harper's Ferry is a town in Virginia best known for John Brown's raid in 1859, where he led 21 men to capture the armory and several buildings in hopes of collecting weapons and distributing them to slaves to incite a slave rebellion in the south. It's credited for boosting abolitionist feeling around the country.  
>November 6, 1860 was Abraham Lincoln's election day, which began with the firing of a canon at the crack of dawn. The events transpired pretty much as I've written here, and everything mentioned is real. Lincoln did demonstrate his favorite rail-splitting method for the reasons described, and there used to be no set ballot- each political party would hand out their own to any white male who wanted to vote.<br>By February 1st of 1861, Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas all followed the example South Carolina set in December immediately after Lincoln's election and seceded from the Union (which was deemed illegal by the Supreme Court, hence why the US never recognized the Confederacy as a real country). The South also firmly believed that Europe would come to its aid if and when real war began because they relied so much on Southern cotton, but that turned out to not be the case.  
>Many of the border states had conflicted populations, and the Civil War was literally supposed to have torn families apart and pitted brother against brother. Dum-dum-duuuum.<p>

Anyway, we also now have Canada and England involved, who will be making more appearances now. Yay for them!

I think that's all for now... I also have the next two chapters planned out in advance this time, so feel free to send angry messages if I don't update in two weeks. I won't hate you.

As always, any thoughts or questions are welcome, and if you have the time, please feel free to drop a review! See you all soon!


	31. Civil War: Part I

Surprise Wednesday update! I'm so nice to you all.

Thank you ever so much to phoenixphlight, jayiel, Bexreader, blueorgray1236, FlyingMintBunny21, MyJen, Aquarius-Otter, ninja82, skyspottedshadow, yay reader, ryuketsuki, Ember Hinote, Natusyuki, Khelc-sul Renai, chibigirl121, WeAllFlyHigh, insanelaughter, seenlee93, Zeplerfer, Miakotsu band of Seven, The Cloud's Essence, Awesome11, five anon Guests, jojoandpicnic97, Ipatiev, Anonawhatsmyname, and Randomlybookish for your lovely reviews!  
>Thanks as well to Explodingcorndogs, Dragonna, Sha115, Little Yellow Sunflower, BrOwNiEfOx, Iwantyourmusic, xXSadistic BitchXx, TheShadow904, Amhi, Cherryappleblossom9201, SadieTheAmazing, bookworm121996, Zephyrus92, Prussian Princess, Dreamer-.-LYNX, Inkwell of Stars, and again to Pearlbunny, chibigirl121, Awesome11, jojoandpicnic97, and Randomlybookish for your favorites and alerts!<p>

On a related note, we've reached 300 reviews at chapter 30! Thank you all for your continued support, you're simply amazing!

On with the chapter!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>The White House was quiet at night, even quieter than Alfred remembered it. His boots made little noise in the carpeted halls as he made his way to Lincoln's office. The building itself was different too, but then again, it <em>had<em> been burning to the ground when last he was there.

Alfred rapped smartly at the office doors before letting himself in anyway. He found the President pacing back and forth before his desk, hands white-knuckled behind his back.

"Sir? Your wife and sons are all asleep now, don't you think it's time to call it a night?"

Lincoln paused in his pacing to look pointedly at Alfred and the dark circles under his eyes. "I'd advise you to take better care of yourself before lecturing me, Mr. Jones."

Alfred sighed exasperatedly, and sat with a thump in one of the armchairs toward the front of the room. "Look, I am just as stressed as you about this whole war, but you're no good to anyone dead on your feet from lack of sleep, sir."

"And what of it, Mr. Jones? What good am I to my country if I can't even organize a winning army to defeat the ones who want to break it apart? Why should I sleep, when there are men out there laying down their lives for this nation?!"

Alfred held up his hands in a placating gesture. "No need to get angry, but what brought this on? This isn't like you."

Lincoln sighed, scratching his beard absentmindedly. "Do you remember Robert E Lee? The man I asked to command the Union forces?"

"Definitely. The man graduated West Point without a single demerit! What of him?"

"He's joined the Confederates as the leader of the Army of Northern Virginia."

_Oh. _"That's… a problem."

"Exactly. I need a man who can combat Lee, and arguably, there isn't anyone."

"McClellan's not that bad…"

"But he's not good enough."

"Fine, then. What are you proposing?"

"At this point?" Lincoln ran a hand through his hair. "Many Republicans are calling for a formal end to slavery, hoping it will end the fighting in the territories if a definitive answer comes to light, so frankly, there are more important things to worry about. Not to mention, if the Confederates continue gaining the upper hand, naval blockade or not they will be advancing North."

"But we don't know that," Alfred offered hesitantly.

"… No. Our knowledge of our opponent is frighteningly minimal, yet they seem to know a great many things about us." Lincoln's mouth set in a grim line, and as Alfred watched, he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"That's it, it's too late as it is. You can't think without sleep any better than I can without good food, so get to bed before _I_ start feeling it," Alfred joked as he wrenched the great office doors open for the President. "Shoo. I'll see you bright and early anyway, and it's not like the Confederates are going to attack Washington at one in the morning."

The President stood stiffly by his desk for a moment before acquiescing. He strode past Alfred it a manner that managed to look confident despite his obvious exhaustion. Alfred followed the man out, putting some distance between them as he took time to close the doors, before turning in the opposite direction.

He didn't feel good, he really didn't. In fact, he felt rather nauseous. He'd met Lee, only once, and even then the man had been a force to be reckoned with. And ever since the Union's men had begun dying at sea as well as on land, the nausea had stuck. But no one seemed to notice, because Alfred hid it well; if Lincoln were to find out that the Union was losing this war, things could go all new kinds of sideways.

_V~-~-~V_

"I can't just go waltzing into the American capital!"

"And who says otherwise?" Matthew asked quietly, barely glancing up from his book. The pair sat in a library in Springfield, the Canadian poring through local registers while Arthur steadfastly disagreed with their latest plan to find their missing personification.

"Well, my superiors for one. You know full well that they've been leaning toward backing this Confederacy as of late. Walking into the Union command center would just be _asking_ to be… I don't know, _ransomed,_ or something of the sort!"

"When was the last time you were in Washington? I know for a fact I haven't been since 1814, so the chances of my being recognized are slim to none."

"1850, for the Clayton-Bulwer treaty, when we were trying to build the Nicaragua Canal."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I take it that fell through?"

"We had some… disagreements about the phrasing of the agreement. But you're pushing us off topic! I can't go to Washington, and that's that!"

"But Arthur, don't you want to figure out as much as I do—okay, perhaps not quite as much as I do—what happened to America?"

"Of course I do. It reflects rather poorly on me that I never found the Nation, and just _wait_ until that frog hears about this whole… mess. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Well, Francis or no Francis, you have a duty as a Nation, here," Matthew replied, "and that's to figure out who and where America is, and seeing as I already have a reasonable lead, I say the work is half over."

Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation. "But we don't even know if this Jones fellow is really who we're looking for! You only knew him for how long, a year? And you claim you promised to return again—"

"I was a bit busy at the moment—"

"—but never did, yes, and the only information we've been able to find is that another bloke with the same name happens to be on the campaign team of their new President Lincoln. And correct me if I'm wrong, but Alfred Jones is a fairly common name."

"Mr. Davis's description fit him to a T, Arthur."

"There," Arthur declared, standing, "is another thing. Who in their right mind names their child David Davis? I wouldn't trust anyone with parents like that. They're probably psychotic."

Matthew closed the ledger, having found nothing, and departed the library with Arthur following. "Then we'll just have to find someone else who knew Alfred Jones. There must be someone in this town," he stated decisively.

As luck would have it, they'd barely gone a block when Arthur suddenly paused at the sound of an older couple's conversation.

"I just don't know, Charles," the woman was saying. "I don't want you to fight, not if Josiah is on the other side, and I don't want _either_ of my sons involved in this foolish war."

"Yes, but Alfred's last few letters have been optimistic… maybe it won't last much longer," the man who was presumably her son replied.

"Dear, Alfred is always optimistic. Even when those glasses of his broke, he said he'd find a way to fix them rather than get a new pair. Always looking for miracles, that one." She smiled gently at the sky, but looked down when Arthur addressed her.

"Excuse me, madam, but I couldn't help overhear—you wouldn't happen to be talking about an Alfred Jones, would you?"

The woman looked surprised, and her son downright shocked. "We were," he said, "but I wasn't aware Alfred was acquainted with any Englishmen."

Matthew, who had noticed Arthur's stop, intervened. "No, he's actually a relative of mine. Arthur here is an old friend, but he hasn't seen Alfred in years, and we heard he was in town."

If anything, the pair looked even more disbelieving. "I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," the man said. "You see, Alfred is _our_ family, so believe me, we would know you if you were related."

Matthew was instantly apologetic. Smiling brightly, he grabbed Arthur's arm to pull him away. "No, I'm sorry, it seems we have the wrong Alfred. We'll just be going now—"

"Wait!" The woman held out her hand, grasping at air as if to slow them down. "If you don't mind my saying, you're the spitting image of our Alfred… save for the length of your hair and your eye color, the two of you could pass for twins."

"Mother!"

"Just look at the boy, Charles, and tell me it's impossible that they're related."

Charles was silent, his brown eyes scanning Matthew's face, but his expression was increasingly less hostile.

Arthur and Matthew exchanged glances. "Would it be possible to meet your Alfred—you know, just to be certain?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid he's not here at the moment," Helen replied. "You see, he works for Mr—excuse me, President Lincoln, and he left for Washington the better part of a year ago."

Arthur nodded sharply. "Thank you for your time …?"

"Wetherby," the woman said, holding out her hand. "I'm Helen Wetherby, and this is my son, Charles."

"Charmed," Arthur replied, shaking Charles's hand and kissing the back of Helen's. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, and this is Matthew Will—Jones, Matthew Jones."

"See, you might really be related!" Helen exclaimed cheerfully. "Well, if our Alfred turns out to be a long-lost relative of yours, we welcome you to the family," she continued, smiling at Matthew.

"Thank you," Matthew said agreeably. "Now, you wouldn't happen to know where we could catch a train to Washington…?"

Helen offered directions that would guide them to a train station not far from where they stood. "And you might meet my husband, Peter, when you get there. He left just this morning to visit Alfred too."

"We just might," Arthur agreed. "It was lovely chatting, but we really ought to be going. Have a _lovely_ day, Mrs. Wetherby, Charles."

They were a block away when this time, Matthew stopped. "You think they're the same person?"

"Undoubtedly," Arthur declared, "they have convinced me. If not the 'spitting image' bit, but the way they responded when I claimed your surname was Jones? I don't know how they're possibly 'related' if this is the same Alfred you remember, but it's certainly worth a go."

"Then you'll go to Washington after all?"

Arthur's enthused expression derailed. "Well—I suppose if there's no other option I'll have to—"

"Great. Now come on, we have a train to catch."

_V~-~-~V_

When Alfred was told someone wanted to see him, he expected a politician of some sort, not someone who would usually send a letter before showing up on his proverbial doorstep.

"Peter."

"Alfred. Good to see you again." He glanced around. "This city hasn't really changed much, even with the fire and all."

"What are you doing here?"

Peter huffed, looking mildly put off by the bluntness of the question. "I'm here to see you, of course. I can't visit a longtime friend?"

"Not without writing, during wartime, in the capital of the nation you can't."

Peter studied Alfred for a moment. "You haven't been sleeping again, have you?"

Alfred glanced sideways, doing his best to avoid eye contact as Peter pressed on. "And you've lost some weight. That's definitely unusual, especially for you." A pause.

"You were lying about it getting better, weren't you." Not even a question, a statement of fact.

Alfred sighed. "What do you want, Peter? You didn't come all this way to harp on my health problems."

Peter winced, and his expression turned even graver. "Charlie… he's volunteered."

Alfred's heart sank. "For what? The local orphanage? Neighborhood watch?" he snapped, even though he already knew the answer.

"The Army, idiot."

He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned back. "What do you want me to do about it? Charlie's a grown man, and he can take care of himself just fine."

"Yes, he can. But he didn't want to join for the longest time because of Josiah, and Helen is worrying herself to death over the both of them."

Alfred opened his eyes. "What's Josiah got to do with any of this?" Peter just shook his head and dug a letter out of his inside coat pocket.

Alfred grabbed it, scanning the single page briefly. It didn't take long to read, a mere four lines of shaky penmanship:

_Dear Mother and Father, Everyone's being drafted, so I'm going to join the Confederate Army. You probably won't see me again. Yours, Josiah_

Alfred resisted the temptation to crumple the letter, a certain pleased feeling at war with his anger, his emotions split down the middle as they had been for the past several months. He stared fixedly at his white knuckles as they gripped the edge of his desk.

"I… I didn't know who else to go to," came Peter's voice, and the loss in it forced Alfred to look up. "I've always thought of you as… I don't know, a sort of hero, after you came back from the Lewis and Clark expedition. You probably can't do anything… I don't really know why I came at all, but if you can…"

Alfred stared at Peter, stared straight at those eyes the same color as his own, trying reconcile his confused state of mind with the fact that this man, _his nephew_, was relying on him. Asking for help.

_There is no one else._

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just… save him. Please."

Alfred stood, circling his desk to stand before his friend, his family. "You know… I couldn't save Zach, hell, I can't save _anyone." _Peter opened his mouth to interrupt, but Alfred plunged on, "Still, Peter… you can be damn sure I'll try my best to save Josiah."

Peter smiled, and that sudden warmth made Alfred feel as if _finally,_ he was able to do something more.

_V~-~-~V_

"I have an idea."

Lincoln glanced sideways at Alfred. Both sat on sofas in one of the many White House sitting rooms, Lincoln attempting to relax while Alfred perched tensely on the edge of the cushions.

"An idea for what?"

"You claim that we don't know anything about the opposition, right?"

"Well," Lincoln shifted in his seat, "I wouldn't say _that_, but we certainly are at a bit of a disadvantage."

_If only you knew how big a disadvantage._

"Well, what if I could fix that?"

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"I'll be a spy."

"Out of the question."

"But sir!"

"Absolutely not, Mr. Jones! I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing! You have a job here—"

"And what exactly do I _do?_ The occasional paperwork, and honestly, I've always hated paperwork! I can pull of a Southern drawl better than anyone I know, I'll join up, and send you Southern plans of attack, because believe me, _they will attack._ The North is just waiting for an assault, and it'll be that much easier to stop if you have an idea of what we're up against!"

Lincoln's face was still set. "May I ask what brought this on? Call me unobservant, but you don't strike me as the unobtrusive type cut out for espionage, Mr. Jones. Honestly, you are too honest."

Alfred gave the president a wry glance. "I can lie with the best of 'em, sir. You can't get jobs with no credentials if you can't provide a few false truths."

"Too boisterous, then."

"Wouldn't that be even better cover? No one expects the loud guys to be spies."

Lincoln spread his hands, palms up. "That's it? No other motivation? You just, out of the blue, decide that you want to sneak over Southern borders and join the Confederate Army?"

"It's for the good of the country, sir. And my family."

"The Wetherbys?" he exclaimed, alarmed.

"Josiah, to be exact."

Lincoln leaned back. "The youngest son… he always did have differing opinions. Is it safe to then assume that your recent guest was either Peter or young Charles?"

"Peter. Charlie joined the Union Army."

A breath escaped the President. "Brother against brother indeed. It has been barely a year, and I am already tired of this war. But Alfred… you must understand."

"Understand what?"

"We can't lose you. If the Confederate officers discern that you are a mirror for our country's condition, who knows what they might do."

"Well, like it or not Mr. Lincoln, I'm one of the best options you have, because frankly, _I can't die._ If there's anybody who you can send, guilt-free, behind enemy lines, it would be me."

Lincoln's expression was still stony, but Alfred could see he was wavering. "Really, sir, it would be best. I can get what I want, you can give your country a leg up, and you don't have to worry about me dying. It's foolproof, honestly."

_V~-~-~V_

"Are you positive that this is the right building?"

"Yes, Arthur, I'm sure."

"Truly? Because we did burn it to the ground last time… maybe they moved it."

"No, this is the Library. And keep quiet, you being British is awful suspicious, especially because we're not here on any official business."

Arthur grumbled under his breath, something along the lines of _sneaking about like bloody bank robbers_ and _wouldn't have to do this back home_. Matthew rolled his eyes behind his glasses.

"Come on, I left Kumotaro back at the hotel, and you know how he gets if he's alone for too long."

"Your bear's name is Kumajirou, Matthew, honestly."

"I know that. Please be quiet."

Matthew led the still-grumbling Englishman over to the side desk that sat in front of the record room. "Excuse me?"

The man behind the counter, who had been watching them with hawklike eyes since they'd entered, gave a superficial little smile. "Yes, how may the Library be of service?"

"We are looking for some employee records, government employees. You wouldn't happen to have anything from before 1814?"

The man's face soured. Looking like he'd swallowed a tack, he replied, "I'm afraid the small matter of the Library _burning_ to the ground reduced all of those to cinders, sorry. Anything else?"

Arthur shot Matthew an _I told you so_ sort of look, but Matthew continued. "More current then, for a specific person. You wouldn't happen to have anything on an Alfred Jones?"

The man's eyebrows slowly rose, achieving a rather comical effect on his thin face. "Alfred Jones, you say? I'm afraid that's a rather common name, and we don't keep a record of every backwater Alfred Jones born in the nation, so perhaps a little specificity…?"

"I know who he's talkin' about!"

If it was possible, the man's face soured further as he turned. "Branigan, I thought I told you not to interrupt me when I am speaking with visitors!"

"Sorry, Mr. Stephenson, sir, but I know who it is they're talkin' about! I was lookin' at his file meself just a few days ago, that I was!" The speaker was a small man with a thick head of red hair and a strong Irish accent, with tiny reading spectacles perched on a broad nose. He was obviously quite excited by the way he kept glancing between his severe boss and the pair of them.

"If it's no trouble, could we see whatever it is you have?" Matthew asked, addressing Branigan.

"Ack, no trouble at all! Come on, come on!" The smaller man waved for them to follow, while the stern one cast his eyes heavenward.

"An Irishman, really," Arthur whispered as they started after him.

"Yes, please be civil."

"As if I would act otherwise!"

"You do have a history with the Irish in general."

Arthur huffed, but seemed to reluctantly agree with Matthew's assessment.

"You say you're lookin' for the file of an Alfred F Jones, right?"

"Yes, we are," Matthew replied.

"Funny thing, the President _himself_ was here just few days or so ago, lookin' for it too. I dunno what's so interestin' about a bloke who worked here fifty-odd years ago."

Arthur glanced at Matthew. "I thought your boss said that the records that old were destroyed?" Matthew offered hesitantly.

"Aw, not all of them! They weren't all here at the time, you know, didn't really matter where the average workin' Joe's files were, but when everythin' went to blazes they tried to, you know, replenish stock, and brought some stuff in."

They arrived in a room that went wall-to-wall with shelves, files stacked high on them with seemingly no rhyme or reason to their arrangement. But Branigan seemed to know what he was doing, immediately rifling through the stacks until he produced a cracked, yellowing sheaf of papers.

"Are you positive that there's nothing newer?" Matthew asked, gingerly taking the file.

"I can swear to it. It's a pretty common name, but like the boss says, we don't keep track of everyone. That's a mighty hard thing to do. 'Twould make me job even worse."

Arthur snatched the file, skimming its pages quickly. Matthew peered over his shoulder, but there wasn't much to look at: just a brief job description and length of service of one employee of Thomas Jefferson.

"Not all that unusual," Arthur whispered. "I say you've sent us on a bit of a wild goose chase with this one, Matthew."

"And you're sure this is the file President Lincoln was looking at, Mr. Branigan?"

The Irishman shuffled awkwardly. "Well… not exactly. He did look at it, though."

"What's not exact about that?"

"It's kinda supposed to be a secret, I think, very hush-hush."

Matthew put on his best honest face. "Can you tell us what he was looking at, Mr. Branigan? Show us exactly?"

"Well… no."

"And why not?" Arthur finally piped up.

Branigan looked alarmed. "Because he took 'em, that's why! Said it was some official presidential funny business and whisked 'em right away! Now, me boss would kill me if he found that bit out, because nobody's supposed to take _anythin'_, not even President Lincoln himself, so you got to keep quiet!"

"But they were newer?" Matthew pressed. "Newer files for an Alfred Jones?"

"Yeah, only a year or so old, tops. I didn't know he was goin' to take 'em!"

"It's okay, Mr. Branigan, we aren't going to tell anyone," Matthew soothed. "Thank you very much for your time, you've been quite helpful."

_V~-~-~V_

"You ready, Jones?"

Alfred looked up from his boots and stuffed his cleaning rag in his back pocket. He gave a little sideways grin to the man poking his head through his tent flap. He was from a farm in southern Virginia and always smelled like tobacco, but he had proved a decent enough fellow in the weeks since Alfred had joined the Confederate Army.

"Don't look so nervous," he continued, "we've got Stonewall Jackson today, there's no way we're losing."

"I think you're the nervous one here, Boyd," Alfred retorted, adjusting his grey uniform. It clung uncomfortably to his skin in the humid August air, but there was little he could do about it. He supposed he should count his blessings that he actually _had_ a full uniform. "Got all your ammo?"

"Yeah, but they really need to send us more supplies," he replied. "I ain't about to run around without any bullets in my gun. That's just asking to get shot."

Alfred just shrugged, and tried to ignore the part of him that was hoping the information he'd sent to Lincoln had been intercepted en route. "Let's go do this, then."

Boyd clapped him on the back. "C'mon, buck up Jones! It's only a matter of life and death!"

V/~-~-~\V

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><p>Whew. Again, longer than your average chapter. I clap myself on the back.<p>

Historical information coming:  
>Robert E. Lee was made the commander of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia in June of 1862. He did indeed graduate West Point military academy without a single demerit, and was second in his class.<br>The Republicans (Lincoln's party) were increasingly pushing for slavery to be a key issue in the war. Lincoln will soon acquiesce.  
>The North's naval blockade of Southern ports kept supplies from Europe from reaching them, and kept the South's exports and communication lines to a minimum. The American Civil War was known as the first "industrial war" in which telegraph lines, railways, ironclad steamships, and other new technologies were used for wartime purposes.<br>The British never fully committed to supporting the Confederacy (more on that next chapter), but they were leaning that way and doing some shady sideline deals at the time.  
>The Clayton-Bulwer Treaty was between Britain and America in an attempt to create a neutral zone in Nicaragua so they could build a canal between oceans in the British-occupied area. Territorial disputes were never solved, and in short, the US felt that the British would have too much control that they shouldn't, so the deal fell through.<br>David Davis was the real campaign manager for Lincoln's presidential campaign (and really, what kind of a name is that?).  
>At this time, there was no draft in the North, all of the armies were state-organized and voluntary. The South did conscript people, and from a broader age range as well (exempting plantation runners, government officials, and clergymen).<br>There were plenty of spies on both sides, male and female. The Union's lack of knowledge is a bit exaggerated here, but hey, fiction.  
>Mr. Stephenson (the first man Arthur and Matthew encounter at the Library) was actually John G. Stephenson, the fifth Librarian of Congress, a thin man with a bushy mustache. He was Librarian from 1861 to 1864 (a fairly short run, considering his successor, Ainsworth Spofford, was there for forty years).<br>The battle that's about to begin is the Second Battle of Bull Run, which took place in August of 1862. Research it if you want an bit of an idea of where next chapter is going!

Alfred is a spy because I want some Confederate perspective on this story, and he needs to bring Josiah back (dual motivation). Boyd isn't an OC, he's a proper (but very, very minor) historical character who will matter!

That's about it. Thank you all for reading, and if you have any questions or thoughts in general, please don't hesitate to leave a comment in a review!

Until next time!


	32. Civil War: Part II

I'm terribly sorry for how long this took, but life has just been really busy these last two months (and still is). A special thanks to all of you who have messaged me between then and now, reminding me that people care about the life of this story as it nears its finale; you've all been so inspirational!

Thanks so much to ninja82, seenlee93, , MyJen, AquariusOtter, EmberHinote, bookworm121996, blueorgray1236, phoenixphlight, yeah9fun, Aqua Cahill, Pearlbunny, Awesome11, BrOwNiEfOx, astrumadamas, ryuketsuki, obsidian334, Little Yellow Sunflower, Bexreader, 11pink45, The Cloud's Essence, Melody-chii, Amhi, Blue J, Verachime, AJ Skye, aceotaku, Miakotsu band of Seven, FireflyAliceXIII, Chocochino11, MasterCard (and three other anon guests), ProblemLady, Happy Camper27, The Grim Writer, TheFirstShadowDemon, and Kelly for all of your wonderful reviews and support!

Also thanks to kriterium, lion5589, Gilbird the Awesome, chess211, Pink Pickles, AllyMCainey, .co, reviewer74, DeathLadyShinigami, jschar00, XenaDog, ShinobiTwin05, Ryu Nitram Captor, Siezai, Dixie C Jones, m10019, Basilisk Heart, ColdSnowGirl, Monx97, aenysa, kits-hold-their-tears, absolra, Rainheart101, artwolf327, mymuffyincat, twindaughterofArtemis, Albapride, Invader Kiwi, Doom the Sandwich, BriarRose10001, Eleazar878, mute-by-choice, Element Phoenix Akira, Fang of the Pouncing Jaguar, parkerjmcmahon, twin4, Cocolover77, Leto Okazaki, sylvia37, ican'tthinkofausername, and again to phoenixphlight, astrumadamas, obsidian334, AJ Skye, FireflyAliceXIII, Chocochino11, ProblemLady, Happy Camper27, The Grim Writer, TheFirstShadowDemon for all your favorites and alerts!

I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
>I disclaim, and own nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>Alfred fidgeted with his collar, tugging ineffectively in an attempt to get some relief from the oppressive August heat. The muddy creek they'd passed earlier that day was sounding better by the minute.<p>

"How long d'you figure we're going to stand here?" Boyd muttered.

Alfred merely shrugged. "D'you even know where we are?" he replied, effortlessly mimicking Boyd's Virginia accent.

"Somewhere around Cedar Mountain or thereabouts, I think."

Nodding despite having no idea where that was, Alfred resumed mopped his face with his hat, which was almost as bad at keeping the sun off his face as his uniform was at keeping his body temperature reasonable.

Boyd glanced sideways at him. "Y'know, the way you sweat, somebody'd think you'd never lived a summer in Virginia, son," he quipped, grinning crookedly.

Alfred gave a weak smile. "I just think that wearing layers of dark wool in the summer isn't the best plan our military's ever had."

"You can say that again." Boyd paused, standing on tiptoe in an attempt to see over the soldiers surrounding them, in a formation so close you could touch your neighbors without even straightening an arm. "So, are we just gonna stand here and wait for someone to attack us?"

"Looks like it."

"Damn. You know anything about our strategy?"

"I don't think we've got one."

"Damn," he repeated. "So, we're just gonna march up in lines and get shot?"

Alfred's brow wrinkled. "How d'you mean?"

The older-looking man shifted his rifle to his other shoulder and continued, his eyes looking fixedly at a point in space to Alfred's left. "I mean, we're standing here, close enough to square dance, and walking straight at a bunch'a fellas more than willing to blow us to bits! Don't that seem a bit stupid to you?"

Brow furrowing further, Alfred countered, "But that's how it's always been done. Only the Peop— Injuns fought by sneaking around. Our generals always considered that uncivilized, I think."

Boyd shrugged, shoulders slumping a bit. "If you say so. Guess we shouldn't question the fellas with the fancy degrees, right?"

"No, I agree with you, it's all a bit stupid. It might've worked back when rifles couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn, but they've improved. How 'bout we move closer to the back?"

"And get mistaken for deserters and shot? That ain't smart either!"

"Then we'll just… hang back a bit when everyone starts moving, 'kay? 'Cause I'd rather leave in one piece."

Boyd hesitated for a moment, before conceding, "Yeah. I'd like to see my sister again, after all. She runs our Pa's hotel now, did I tell you? That's my little sis."

As the other man continued to speak, Alfred's hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing lightly against the scrap of paper and envelope crumpled within to reassure himself that they were still there. It was too late to convey strategy, but the results of this battle and any future plans could still be communicated. It was all a matter of finding the right mail train.

_V~-~-~V_

Mary Todd Lincoln held the President's latest correspondence in her gloved hand, contemplating mail theft for exactly the third time in her life. Despite the handwriting on the outside of the envelopes changed every time, she knew from the lack of a postmark that this was from that charming Alfred Jones, a young man who'd worked with her husband on his Senatorial campaign.

He'd just recently returned to their employ (albeit rather mysteriously), persistently lost weight despite her continued offerings to get the kitchen staff to make him extra food, and disappeared again under equally odd circumstances. It was during her second-ever contemplation of mail theft that she discovered that her husband had sent the poor boy off to the South as a spy, and a more foolish decision she'd never heard.

One of the aides appeared around the corner, an older man whose name Mary never remembered, and she hastily slid the envelope into her sleeve. He smiled and nodded with a perfunctory, "Good day, ma'am. How are you faring?"

She would never remember what response she gave, but the aide didn't seem to care as he took the corner at a fast clip. She could clearly hear him knocking on the great Presidential office doors from where she stood.

"Mr. President? There are two young men outside to see you."

Her husband's reply was muffled, but from the speed at which the aide returned Mary could guess it was positive. Minutes later the aide returned again, this time followed by two, indeed, very young men.

One held himself stiffly, chin up and gait as crisp as the suit he wore. His companion, Mrs. Lincoln noted with some shock, bore a striking resemblance to Alfred, but with longer hair and darker eyes. He was distinctly more relaxed, but he kept glancing about at the walls of the White House with an oddly sheepish expression.

The aide stopped before her. Gesturing, he said, "May I present the First Lady, Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln. Are you in need of something, ma'am?"

"Oh, not at all. I was simply curious about our guests," she replied. Addressing the two men, she continued, "One does not often receive visitors during times like these."

It was the more formal of the two who spoke, his English accent giving Mary pause. "We are here on diplomatic duties, as I'm sure you could guess. Arthur Kirkland, at your service, ma'am." Acting the perfect gentleman, he gave a slight bow and kissed her proffered hand.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kirkland. If you should need anything while in Washington, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Of course."

The aide hustled their little group along with a, "best not keep the President waiting," and the second companion smiled briefly at Mrs. Lincoln before following.

She heard the office doors open again, and the men's voices were clear as they introduced themselves. Diplomats, from England and Canada respectively. "We have news concerning the national security of the United States," Mr. Kirkland spoke gravely, "Perhaps a more private arrangement…?"

The office doors shut with a resounding finality, and as the aide's footsteps faded down the hallway, Mary Lincoln strained her ears but heard no more.

Curious, but unwilling to eavesdrop (terribly impolite as it was), Mary resolved to ask her husband about the guests at supper that evening, and walked away with the letter still tucked in her sleeve.

_V~-~-~V_

"Hey, Jones…"

Alfred methodically went through the motions of cleaning his boots for the third time that day. They wouldn't come clean.

"Jones…"

_Maybe they'll never come clean_, he mused, a bit darkly. _Just like this filthy hospital tent. _He swatted absently at a fly buzzing about his head.

_Jones!"_

Alfred jolted upright as the sound of Boyd's voice finally pierced his thoughts. "Wha—yes?"

Boyd looked at him suspiciously. "I was gonna ask you to get me some water, but… you sure you're okay, Jones?"

Alfred smiled. "It's the heat, don't worry."

Boyd grinned back. "You and your heat, Jones. I ain't never heard of a Southern fella who couldn't deal with heat!"

"Well, now you have." Alfred paused a moment, before asking, "You sure you're all right? You're the one with the bullet wound." He gestured at Boyd's leg, still bandaged, propped up on a stool.

"Ah, it's only a flesh wound. Not that _you'd_ know, you healed faster than anyone I ever did see before!"

Alfred smiled placidly again, ignoring the phantom twinge in his side that came with the mention of the bullet wound he'd received at what had become known as the Second Battle of Bull Run.

~v~

_They'd moved to the back, just like Alfred had suggested, but he'd soon lost Boyd amidst the smoke of the guns anyway. Their ranks were quickly devolving into chaos as men shouted, charging forward, leaping over others, who lay fallen and bloody on the tight-packed dirt._

_Through the smoke, Alfred could see the Confederate flag, oddly similar to the United States' with its red and white horizontal stripes and the circle of stars in the corner, flying despite its fraying edges. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he was charging forward, seized by a sudden urge to _fight for the pride of the South_ and beat those Northern bastards_.

_He raised his gun, firing forward into the crowded mass of blue-uniformed soldiers ahead, and it was just like fighting the British, fighting for freedom and the right for states to do as they pleased, poorly stacked odds be damned—_

_And then there was a sharp pain in his side and he was tumbling downwards, landing in a heap next to another man in a grey uniform, whose eyes were open and staring glassily ahead, his grey hat askew and his hand curled limply around the gun at his side. Its barrel was bent, its stock snapped, and there was a blossoming cherry-red stain across the man's chest._

_Alfred shook, scrambling away from the dead man, and wondered what on earth had just happened._

~v~

He'd written to Lincoln just a week before, immediately following the battle, explaining what had happened to the best of his abilities even as he and the rest of the injured men were moved east to a hospital camp near Front Royal. Boyd had been the most excited injured man there, exclaiming over his "red badge" even as he limped back to his hometown.

All Alfred could think about was the fact that he wasn't supposed to be fighting his own side, but for some reason the option was actually rather appealing.

_Maybe I'm going native_, he thought, even as he made his way towards the spring where the hospital camp got its water. _Too much time spent around Confederates. That must be it._ He needed time away from the Army, some shore leave equivalent, but unfortunately that was called desertion and most who attempted _that_ were shot, no questions asked.

He returned to Boyd's bed in the tent, only to find him engaged in conversation with a superior officer. Alfred attempted to make himself scarce, but Boyd caught sight of him and waved him over.

"Guess what, Jones! We're visiting my sister!"

Alfred glanced between Boyd and the superior officer, who didn't look like he was disagreeing. "Visiting your sister? What for?"

The officer was the one who spoke. "We've received word that Miss Belle Boyd was set free in a prisoner exchange at Fort Monroe. We need to see if she has gained any further useful information while being held by the Union."

"And we'll surely do that, sir, you can count on us!" Boyd interjected. The officer nodded and marched off, and Alfred turned to Boyd.

"I thought you said your sister ran an inn in Front Royal?"

Boyd straightened proudly. "She did, but in May she overheard information from Union troops and braved Union soldiers and bullets to report it before and during the Battle of Front Royal. Apparently, she got herself a _Southern Cross of Honor_ or some sort from Stonewall Jackson himself!"

"So she's a spy?"

"You bet your britches she is!"

"And I get to meet her too?"

"Yep, I got you and me together on their recon-ai-ssance team. We finally get to leave this hospital dump and do something important!"

Alfred smiled wanly. "Great. Just what I always wanted."

_V~-~-~V_

Mary Todd Lincoln had opened the letter the evening she had liberated it from the pile of her husband's mail, and had yet to mention its worrying contents. But when supper that day had come along, he had looked so pale and drawn that she decided to wait for just a little longer.

"Who were those young gentlemen who came calling earlier? I did not recognize them," she began, trying to find a light conversation topic, but the President didn't respond, if possible paling further.

Mary pressed on. "I heard they were diplomats, from England and Canada. Has that young Mr. Adams been improving our relations in Europe?"

"Mr. Adams is doing just fine," Lincoln replied faintly.

"I take it they were here thanks to him then," Mary continued. "Potatoes?"

Her husband ate, but with a mechanical stiffness that Mary noticed almost immediately. _We certainly aren't married for nothing_, she reminded herself.

"Abraham," she said, as sternly as she could, her use of his name catching his attention, "what is the matter?"

He glanced at her, then looked away, bushy brows furrowing. "We are in a war, Mary—"

"No, it's something else. I have seen you straining for months under the burden of this war, but your expression now is something new." She waited a moment, but he didn't reply. "It has something to do with those visitors, does it not? But what could they have done? Are Canada and England changing their stance on this war?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Lincoln denied, vehement in his refute. He then sighed, setting his fork down. "Actually, it's about young Mr. Jones."

"Mr. Jones? The young assistant of yours?"

"Yes… you see, I sent him to be a spy for our side, in Southern ranks."

Mary gasped, feigning surprise at the news. "You did not! Mr. Jones is not possibly qualified for such a sensitive position!"

"That is what I said as well, but he was rather insistent."

"He's not been captured, has he?" Mary asked quickly, though she didn't know how news could have traveled that fast.

"No, he's not been captured… but those men today were here about him."

Mary's own brow furrowed in confusion, before she forced her expression flat again. A lady, especially the First Lady, could not be seen with a wrinkled forehead. "How are they connected with young Mr. Jones?"

"They fear he may be… unavoidably compromised."

"How? And how do they know such a thing?"

Lincoln sighed again, massaging his temples. "Mr. Jones came to me before we left for Washington, and told me something rather astonishing. I did not truly believe him at the time, but many things made sense once I had time to think it over."

"Are you going to tell me, or continue to beat about the bush?"

Lincoln paused, finally making eye contact with his wife. "Mr. Jones claims that he can sense, sometimes feel physically, everything that happens in this country."

It was Mary who was now the speechless one, but her mind immediately circled back to the letter currently hidden in her top left dresser-drawer, and everything seemed to click in place.

_Oh._

"And those young men…?" Mary asked numbly.

"Are the same, save for the fact that they represent England and Canada. Though the English one, Mr. Kirkland, kept stumbling over Mr. William's—the other one's— title, always calling him 'North America'. It seems that they only recently became aware of Mr. Jones's existence, and they still weren't certain."

Incredulous, Mary asked, "How do you miss a… what do they call themselves?"

"Apparently, Nations, in the formal. Or by the names of their respective countries."

"And Mr. Jones would therefore be America?"

Lincoln had nodded gravely. "All of America, including the South."

This time, Mary's shock was genuine, the implications of a civil war hitting full force. "My God—!"

"You understand now," Lincoln continued, "that we must get this information to him as soon as possible. To his knowledge… he is unique in his condition. And it appears he understated its severity when telling me of it."

"But we cannot contact him without risking revealing him, and we don't know where he is for sure," Mary finished. Lincoln just nodded, and Mary let out a breath. "The poor young man."

"Yes," Lincoln had agreed, "but not so very young after all, is he?"

Mary remembered his words that evening with crystal clarity, as astonishing as that conversation was, and has been brooding over them since then. And she had continued brooding over the letter's contents, one line in particular lodging itself at the forefront of her mind, no matter how she tried to bury it.

_I don't know how much longer I can maintain a healthy enough mentality to write truthfully to you. I am afraid that I might fail you, Mr. Lincoln._

Those young diplomats too had been a common train of thought, and now she found herself sitting in the blue reception room, drinking tea across from one of them. He seemed a bit on edge, his posture stiff as his green eyes took inventory of the room.

"We, that is to say our forbears, attempted to return this room to its original state after the great fire in 1814. Of course I cannot judge, but I believe it to be a near enough replica."

The young man didn't say anything immediately, though Mary could have sworn she saw him wince. "The art is quite lovely," he finally replied evenly, and several moments passed in quiet.

"I do appreciate your visit, Mr. Kirkland," Mary continued, "but my husband won't be returning for a while yet. Is your request something I can help with?"

"Oh, it's just a small thing. I'd rather not bother you, madam."

"I'm sure I can accommodate any small thing you should ask for, Mr. Kirkland."

The young man gave a small smile, more of a quirk of his lips and rather large eyebrows. "I was just wondering if you had any pictures, photographs or otherwise, of a Mr. Alfred Jones? I believe he works—or worked—for the President."

Thinking quickly, Mary stood. "I am not aware of any pictures of Mr. Jones himself, but there's a man in one of our paintings who bears a striking resemblance. Would you care to see that?"

"Please."

Mary led the Englishman out of the blue room and up a flight of stairs to one of the lesser-used corridors, where a painting her husband had shown her the night of their fateful dinner conversation hung. It was older, a good fifty years, and had apparently been donated to the White House around the time that Thomas Jefferson had given his personal library to the rebuilt Library of Congress. A gift from the former President himself, apparently, but unlike his other portraits (usually just of his face), this one had him sitting in a red chair.

Mary pointed to the shadowed figure standing just behind Jefferson, careful not to touch the canvas. "He's not very clear, but you can get a sense for his features. Of course, our Mr. Jones wears spectacles, but the likeness is uncanny."

She stood, admiring the painting for a few moments, before turning to the Englishman. To her surprise, he had turned a chalky white.

"Are you quite all right, Mr. Kirkland?"

Her voice seemed to jolt him from some deep stupor, as he practically jumped, eyes darting between her and the painting.

"Ah—yes, madam, perfectly all right. I just—I have seen someone very much like this man before. Barely different at all…" he trailed off. More to himself, he muttered, "Was that young lad's name Alfred? When was that anyway…?"

Mary strained her ears, but couldn't make out much more of his murmurings than "seagulls" and "Boston," leaving her rather confused.

"Mr. Kirkland?" she asked again.

He glanced between her and the painting once more, than fixed his face into a charming smile. "Thank you very much for your time, madam. I believe I have what I came here for, you've been most helpful."

Mary smiled in return. "If that's all, I'm glad I could be of some assistance. Shall I see you to the door?"

_V~-~-~V_

Front Royal was a small town, comprising of one dusty main street surrounded by farmland. The scars of the Battle of Front Royal were visible on the landscape in the form of large dead patches and bullet-furrowed trees just as it was visible in the slightly wary way the scarce few townspeople carried themselves. Sure, they were open and hospitable enough to the pair of Confederate soldiers, but only if they could give them directions out of town.

Alfred couldn't feel quite the usual connection between himself and these people; slight uncertainty seemed to have replaced unwavering confidence. He found himself feeling jealous of Boyd, because those who knew him would exclaim in recognition, and Boyd in turn was in his element.

"Well I'll be darned, if it ain't Belle's brother!"

"Good t'see ya again, son. The army treatin' you all right?"

"Whatchoo doin' here, boy? Ain't you supposed to be fightin' off them Union bastards somewheres else?"

One old man had squinted at the pair of them, and said, "I didn' know them Boyd's gone an' had themselves another son. I'd be sick of so many kids, 's why I never married."

Boyd had just smiled and waved. "Hello there to you too, Mr. Caldwell!"

They arrived outside a small inn, more of a bed-and-breakfast sort of place than anything, but Boyd was grinning quite happily as he knocked. "Nothing like home sweet home, right Jones?"

"…Right."

Boyd cuffed his arm in a friendly, _stop being so dour_ kind of way as they waited. With an audible rustle of fabric through the door, it burst open in their faces, revealing a dark-haired woman in her early twenties who probably could have hidden several small children under her hoop skirt. She smiled, but almost instantly suppressed it.

"Benjamin Reed Boyd, you can't just show up on a lady's doorstep without due notice!"

Boyd, who also had been smiling, immediately dropped his grin. "Well, you shouldn't be getting yourself locked up in prison without me there either!" Boyd retorted.

Belle Boyd puffed up proudly. "I was doing my country a service."

"You need to tell me all about it!"

"Did you for once consider that I would withhold information about my daring deeds?"

"No, but that's my job, to get you to tell me. Me and Jones here," he nodded sideways at Alfred, "are here to ask you if you heard anything in Yankee camp."

"Mercy, I barely even noticed you!" Belle exclaimed. "Come inside, won't you? Have a taste of some proper Southern hospitality."

The lemons in Alfred's drink were sinking again on his fifth iced tea before Boyd actually got around to asking his sister what they'd come to know.

"Well, this career in espionage came about by total chance," Belle said, waving one hand about as airily as the folding fan she held in the other. "Some of the Yankee soldiers apparently heard I had hung a Confederate flag in one of the rooms here (and of course I had, why wouldn't I?) so they arrived and hung one of _their _flags in the front yard, which was downright irritating, but then they insulted _Mother_ and I couldn't take it!"

"What'd you do?" Alfred asked.

"Shot him dead," Belle replied matter-of-factly. "Right over there in the hall."

Alfred swallowed. "I see."

"Anyway, I was exonerated for my forced act of violence, but they posted guards outside the house. One of them was quite taken with me though, a… Captain Keily, if I remember correctly, or was it Kelly? Regardless, I am indebted to him for some very remarkable effusions, some withered flowers, and a great deal of important information. I then had Eliza carry the information in a watch case to the Confederate officers, because who would be suspicious of a slave girl out to market?"

Alfred glanced toward the kitchen, where the sounds of Eliza washing dishes could be heard. She would probably come out in another few minutes with more iced tea at Belle's bidding, but she was a quiet woman, a bit older than Belle and rather reserved. He couldn't imagine her sneaking around with secret information.

Belle was still talking, regaling an enraptured Boyd with further stories. "…and when I learned that the forces at Fort Royal were being reduced, I rode through enemy lines with false papers to bluff my way past the sentries to deliver this information personally to one of the Confederate scouts. And in May when Stonewall Jackson lead his men's advance on _my _information, I ran to and from the Confederate lines and got bullet holes, _bullet holes_, in one of my favorite skirts! I still have the letter Jackson himself wrote me, _and_ the Southern Cross of Honor, both more than you can say."

"How's it that you got captured then?" Boyd quipped. "Too many of them guards take a fancy to you?"

"No, my lover at the time gave me up." Boyd looked like he was about to ask something more, but she continued, "Not the Mr. Butler whom you are familiar with, another one," effectively cutting him off.

Despite the long introduction, she turned out to have no knowledge of Union troop movements. Apparently, they'd kept her under close watch at Fort Monroe, and were under strict orders not to let her go. "I don't rightly know where those orders were muddled," she mused. "I'd like to thank the man who muddled them."

Alfred sighed faintly in relief. It seemed here would be nothing of importance to write to Lincoln of this encounter.

Boyd excused himself to go do a quick visit to some of the others in the town he wanted to see. "And before you say so, I'll be back before mid-afternoon. I _know_ we got to get back to camp by evening, Jones, I ain't stupid." That left Alfred to stare at the wooden beams of the ceiling and hoping that maybe _he_ wouldn't say anything stupid that Belle would pick up that would give him away, and maybe he'd make it out of Virginia alive (whose idea was coming here anyway?), and maybe Josiah Wetherby could just _show up_ so he didn't fail Peter like he'd failed everyone else.

"What's on your mind, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred blinked, realized that Belle was addressing him, and quickly returned his gaze to the ceiling.

"Nothing, really."

"Oh, honestly dear. Do you expect me to believe that?"

He turned his brightest grin at her, hoping he could distract her, because no matter what he'd told Lincoln, he really didn't like lying. "Yeah, I just was wondering… when I'll get back to active duty. Injuries are really rotten."

Belle seemed to relax, shifting back in her seat (how she sat at all in that skirt of hers Alfred would never know). "I can understand that. Did I tell you that I was nearly shot running to and from Confederate lines?"

"You did, actually."

"Mercy, I've already forgotten!" Belle tittered. "I do hope Benjamin isn't much of a problem for you; he's got a lot on his shoulders as the eldest son, and sometimes can overdo things, I think."

Alfred frowned a bit, perplexed. "I thought one of the men we passed in town mentioned your family having many children."

"We did," Belle replied somberly, "but they all perished far too young. If you're talking about Mr. Caldwell, his memory hasn't been the best as of late, and he never remembers that my other siblings all passed."

"Ah." Silence ate up the space in between them, Belle managing to remain composed and attentive while Alfred fiddled more with his glass of iced tea.

"Have you ever thought about, I dunno… going professional with that story of yours?"

"How do you mean?"

Alfred elaborated, "Telling it to others. You're certainly animated enough to be an actress, or a public speaker. I'm sure others would be interested to hear about your exploits."

"And when we win, I can tell the world about how Belle Boyd, Confederate spy, assisted in our glorious victory!" Belle finished, eyes bright. "And then maybe I can follow my dream of moving to England, seeing Europe! Wouldn't that be lovely, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred smiled back, and it felt almost like how it always used to when he said, "I think that would be just fantastic, Miss Boyd."

_V~-~-~V_

After Antietam in mid-September, the field hospital had its biggest influxes of patients yet. The battle had been almost equally costly on both sides, but was considered a "strategic Union victory."

Alfred supposed he should be happy, but with more soldiers limping into the field hospital every hour, it certainly didn't feel like one.

They quickly ran out of beds, and stripped the mattresses to create makeshift ones out of dirty sheets. The hospital was short on provisions as it was; the naval blockade kept exportable goods in the South, making outside profits nearly nonexistent. Everything else was going to the war effort, but "everything else" turned out to be not much at all with the Union's recent territorial gains on the railroads.

Union territorial gains were also supposed to be good, but the South was gaining too; Antietam was the first major battle they'd had across Union lines, and the fact that Alfred found himself just has happy about that was scaring him. Even though he'd healed quickly as usual, the hospital had seemed safe. He couldn't do any harm here, and he still heard warfront news via the coherent soldiers who came in.

But nothing seemed coherent now, because the soldiers just kept coming, limbs blown to smithereens by artillery, heads wrapped in stained bandages, carrying the worst-off as they dragged themselves forward, pleading for someone to _help please help._

And Alfred, feeling mostly useless and a bit guilty, sought out the one woman nurse he knew who actually helped with medical treatment. He caught sight of her at the other side of the tent, skirt billowing about her in the stifling, blood-scented air as she ran to tend to incoming soldiers.

He was pretty sure that helping wounded enemy soldiers with medical treatment was crossing a line somewhere, but he couldn't bring himself to care, because these men were off the battlefield and _dying_, and nothing about that qualified them as enemies at all.

He quickly derailed that train of thought before it could continue, because thinking of the Confederates as _not the enemy_ was one step closer to a destination he didn't like the idea of reaching.

"Ms. Bacot!" he called, running towards her, not caring that he was supposed to be injured still. "Ms. Bacot!"  
>She turned, and the premature lines on her young face deepened as she frowned. "Mr. Jones, you shouldn't be overworking yourself. And I've patients to attend to, so unless you need something more desperately than them…?"<p>

"No, nothing like that," Alfred replied hurriedly, "I was wondering if you needed help."

She looked like she was about to protest, but glanced outside again at the latest wave of wounded and sighed. "Help carry them. Find any spare space and try to stop the bleeding, and wait for a doctor."

Alfred nodded and hurried out, immediately hefting one man whose leg was bent at an impossibly ugly angle off another man's back, carrying his dead weight like it was nothing while letting the other lean on his shoulder.

"It'll be fine," he told them both. "You'll be fine." He found them an empty space, adjusted the first man's leg as best he could and sat with them until a doctor came, then ran back outside for more, leading soldier after soldier to the hopeful safety that was the hospital.

Some were delirious, some were on the verge of death, and some had fairly minor injuries that the doctors couldn't do much about; Alfred told all of them _it'll be fine, don't worry, it'll be fine._

One man whose entire side was covered in red, blinked feverishly as Alfred set him down. As he made to walk away, the man grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

"There were so many of them," he whispered hoarsely. "We were starving. There were so many."

"It'll be fine," Alfred answered mechanically, as the man's hand dropped to his side, and he wasn't sure who he was talking to anymore.

_V~-~-~V_

Arthur sat at his desk, safely back in Canada (hospitality courtesy of Matthew) and away from the bloody mess that was America, and wondered how he could have missed it. He'd had his suspicions when Matthew said the lad looked like him, but seeing that picture had brought back those memories of a Boston pier nearly a century before.

_"What do you want to be?"_

_"I don't really know… but someone who can protect people, or make people happy. I think I'd like that."_

He buried his head in his hands. How could he have missed it? He'd stood right next to the boy, _right next to him_, and wasn't able to realize that the odd feeling of being drawn to a Yankee coffee shop busboy meant _Nation_.

"We'd have avoided this mess altogether," he muttered to himself. Lincoln had told them that Alfred Jones was off in the South on a spying mission, and a stupider thing Arthur couldn't imagine. Didn't the lad know what a Civil War would do to him? He should be at his President's side, like they always were, helping out from behind the scenes because interacting too much with ordinary humans was just asking for trouble.

Then again, he didn't know any better. _Because you never told him, _Arthur thought disparagingly.

"No matter," Arthur said to himself, sitting up. "You might've started this with your stupidity, but that just means you've got to be the one to end it." He nodded sharply at a point in space in front of him. _Once this bloody Civil War he's got going on is over, you're going to do what you should've done in 1776._

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>So, that's that. Longer than usual for a chapter, because I'm sorry. Probably one, maybe two more chapters of Civil War to cover.<p>

Historical stuff:  
>Confederate uniforms were dark gray, while the Union wore blue; both were made of material that would make you sweat bullets in the summer, especially in the South.<br>Wartime tactics were still the antiquated march-in-lines deal, which was okay in the Revolutionary War because muskets had really, really poor aim. By the Civil War, guns were loads better and the first heavy artillery was coming into use, which made the Civil War "the bloodiest in American history" because people still marched in lines against said better weaponry. The death toll (on both sides) was so high because battles were mostly suicidal, and because sanitation in hospitals and camps was extraordinarily poor, plus most of the fighting was done in oppressive Southern heat.  
>The Confederate flag actually went through several incarnations, none of which are the crisscross stars-and-bars flag known to us as the generic Confederate flag (that was the flag of Lee's branch of the Confederate army). The one used in 1862 looked an awful lot like the American flag, with stars in the corner and red and white stripes. They changed it the year after to be a mini-flag in the corner on a white background, but that made it look like they were surrendering, so they changed it again to add a vertical red stripe on the white, and then they lost the war. Oh well.<br>Belle Boyd was an actual Confederate spy, and the details of her story are accurate in this chapter. Her slave was named Eliza, she did run through enemy fire, and did receive a Southern Cross of Honor from Stonewall Jackson. Her prisoner exchange mentioned here though actually entailed her being recaptured immediately after, rather than set free. She did eventually go to England to pursue a career as an actress.  
>Antietam was the first major battle fought in Union territory, and the South was vastly outnumbered (around 75,000 men to 38,000). The result was a strategic Union victory, despite the Union death toll of around 12,000 (the Southern was around 10,000).<br>One of the Union's greatest tactical moves was to immediately enlarge its Navy and blockade trade out of all Southern ports, taking away their main source of income. The South had also counted on "King Cotton" to get the British and other Europeans on their side; without being able to export anything, Europe's support went to the North instead.  
>Ava Bacot was a young plantation-owning widow who believed firmly in the rightness of slavery and the plantation system. She left the plantation in care of a neighbor and, despite the advice of everyone around her, went to the front lines as a nurse. Normally, women weren't allowed to do any actual caring of the soldiers, and instead were relegated to tasks like cooking and washing; Ava Bacot was one of the few who actually got to practice medicine, and was a nurse from 1860 to 1863.<p>

Phew! Now that I'll hopefully be back to somewhat-regular updates, please tell me what you think of the story thus far! Any questions, comments, or general thoughts are appreciated if you take the time to review!

Hope you enjoyed, and see you next time!


	33. Civil War: Part III

Hello friends, guess who's back! And it's not even one of those chapters where people are like, "sorry, I'm abandoning this after all," it's a real-live chapter concluding the Civil War and a bunch of other real-live plot stuff.

I'd apologize for the two-year hiatus, but it was refreshing and makes coming back to this story more refreshing. So I'll apologize for the wait and thoughts of abandonment instead.

There have been so, so many kind and detailed and polite reviews in the last two years and I appreciate every single one, but that's just too many to list here. I tried to reply personally to every single one (as I always try to do), and if I didn't (or if your PMs are off, or if you were a guest), I really am sorry for missing you, please know your feedback was extraordinarily appreciated! You all were hugely inspirational and the reason I came back to writing this story.

That said, it has been two years. I've tried to keep the plot cohesive and writing style similar, but I'm not perfect. If you see any huge, glaring plot holes, please let me know and I'll patch them over and appreciate you forever.

Also, there are a lot of time skips in this chapter because I was kinda rushing to finish the Civil War, so pay attention to date stamps or you'll probably be confused (but hopefully not too confused). Enjoy!

I disclaim, and own nothing.

* * *

><p>1864<p>

Alfred toed his traveling trunk anxiously as he waited for the train. There was almost no difference in the amount of wear now between the battered leather of his boots and the battered exterior of his luggage. He wondered if he looked so battered as well.

The people he normally enjoyed watching trailed past, young and old, black and white, all with a place to be yet a similar air of displacement. The war had done a number on the South, and the lack of food, scores of ransacked towns, and no real hope of victory had left the South's people as beaten and downtrodden as the fields of crops Union soldiers had marched across. This particular train station was the only functional one Alfred could find to get him to Illinois, as all the others had been demolished in an effort to isolate and ruin the South.

It had worked, it had all worked, and Alfred, as much as he enjoyed having his country reunified, couldn't help but feel that something had been broken between the two sides that would never be truly repaired, no matter how effective Lincoln's Reconstruction turned out to be. After all, the scar on his stomach hadn't healed, remaining broken and divided.

In his correspondence with Lincoln, the President had attempted to convince him many times to return to Washington: he was important to the country, too important to lose (especially should get himself stuck in the South), and his internal conflict would only increase the longer he spent on the battlefield.

In the end, Alfred wanted to help his country, and he'd been certain that warning the Union about the South's movements was the best way. But he was no longer certain he wanted to be the hero, especially not if it cost so many lives.

He ran a hand through his hair, his unruly cowlick springing back up immediately. At least he'd gotten his glasses fixed, finally. If nothing else, he could at least see properly as the steam train huffed its way into the station. Gathering his belongings, he made his way aboard.

As he sat in the stiff wooden coach seat, surrounded by the sight and smell and sound of the faces of a defeated possible-country, he allowed himself to wonder about those he'd known on the other side. Had Boyd made it out alive? Had his sister Belle fought her own personal rebellion until the bitter end, alongside those like Ava Bacot? Had Eliza had anywhere to go after she was freed, any family or hope for a future?

He didn't want to think about Josiah Wetherby, whom he'd not seen or heard from since that one fateful battle. He hadn't even asked Charlie when he'd written, too glad that his friend had made it out of the Union Army to question it. Alfred supposed he'd find out soon enough. After all, Charlie was getting married.

In the meantime, Alfred had an entire train ride to remember the casualties of war.

_V~-~-~V_

1862

Alfred woke one morning, newly released from the hospital and back to Army tents with the similarly released Boyd, to the sounds of angered shouting among the rest of the men of General Lee's Army of Northern Virginia.

"Wha's goin' on?" he mumbled to his companion, who just snorted and rolled over.

"'S too early fer this," the other replied, and Alfred was just about to attempt to sleep again when the tent door was thrown open.

"That fool Lincoln's freed the slaves!"

Instantly, Alfred was wide awake. "Excuse me?"

The man in the tent doorway, a half-dressed soldier whose face he recalled vaguely, gesticulated wildly. "The slaves! He's gone and freed them!"

"All of 'em?"

"All of ours, and who gave him the right?! The Confederacy listens to no President but Jefferson Davis!"

Alfred tried his best to look appalled, though inside he was cheering for his President. He'd worried that Lincoln wouldn't actually do anything decisive, and he really couldn't while he was trying to keep the South part of the Union.

Lincoln had once said, "If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that." Alfred knew it was Lincoln's personal desire that all men should free, but had put the wellbeing of the nation above the lives of slaves and it still hadn't prevented war. It looked like he had finally done something decisive, even with the opposition Alfred knew he must have faced from the other politicians in Washington.

For lack of a better word, Alfred was proud.

Meanwhile, Boyd and the half-dressed soldier in the tent doorway were brimming with righteous anger, the former having decided that major political action in this war was something worth waking up for.

"I don't care what the damned President says, I ain't never accepting a slave as my equal!" Boyd declared. "Right, Jones?"

"I can't think before breakfast," Alfred said instead, tiredly shutting down the part of his mind currently ranting about _personal property _and _important industry _and _scientifically superior, never equal._ Food was more important than politics with soldiers, even important politics.

"You're always right about that, Jones. This is why I keep you around," Boyd said, tone turning boisterous as he cuffed Alfred's shoulder.

"See?" he continued, addressing the soldier in the door. "Jones reminds us of what's real important in life."

_V~-~-~V_

_Alfred,_ Lincoln had written, _please __return to Washington. I have learned some important information from certain sources, too delicate to be conveyed in a letter but concerning you to the utmost._

_President Lincoln, _Alfred had replied, _Lee plans an invasion of the North within the coming months. Looks like I'll be heading home after all._

Alfred had also asked about the freeing of the slaves in what he learned was called the Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln had responded with, "_I had never, in my life, felt more certain that I was doing right than I did in signing that paper," _and Alfred had smiled at those penned words, that penned proof that Lincoln was leading his country right for the reasons he believed in.

The invasion was also happening as promised, and Alfred was growing worried with their successes. He and the rest of General Lee's army had made it to Pennsylvania, genuine Northern territory, by mowing down the Northern opposition.

"Why he couldn't have picked a time of year other than the heat of July I don't know," Boyd complained, for once right with Alfred as he grumbled about the stifling Confederate uniforms. He had kept his birthday an even bigger secret this year, considering that the Confederates weren't feeling too positive about things that made the Union happy, and had watched it pass unmarked as General Lee's army arrived at the rain-flooded Potomac River.

What always had never really made much sense to Alfred was how they could all reconcile their identity as Americans with their identity as Confederates, yet turn around and be so aggressively un-American that they denied the Constitution.

"Rebellin' against oppressive powers is the most American thing there is," Boyd had said gruffly when Alfred asked. "States rights's guaranteed."

"But the Constitution was a contract between states. There ain't no way they can just duck out of a contract because they don't like what other people in it're doing."

"Constitution also guarantees a man a right to his property, and I don't see no Emancipation Proclamation protectin' that now do I?" Alfred wanted to tell him about the framers, who took out the anti-slavery clause to keep the southern states but deliberately worded the rest of the document to allow for the slaves to be freed one day, how it was more recent judicial action that was responsible for the current state of affairs, but he knew Boyd wouldn't listen.

Especially not now, not when Boyd and the rest of the army, bolstered by their recent successes, were full of optimism about the upcoming confrontation.

Alfred grabbed his gun and pulled the brim of his hat down to force his cowlick to lie flat. Boyd grinned from the other side of the tent.

"Here we go again, Jones. You ready for this one?"

Alfred pulled a grin. "Sure thing. You got our orders?"

"We're to come in from the northwest, catch them blue bastards by surprise while they're tryin' to reinforce the ridge." Boyd clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "Gonna get 'em good! We ain't made it this far for nothing!"

They exited the tent to the sound of thumping boots and shouts of the other foot soldiers. Alfred followed the shouts of the commanding officers, falling carefully towards the back of the pack as everyone began to fall into formation. For all that this felt like any one of the battles he'd been involved in since the beginning of the war, a knot in his stomach told him that something about this fight, something about Gettysburg, was going to be different.

Just as he lost sight of Boyd, he realized it felt like a turning point.

_V~-~-~V_

"Get down!"

Alfred dived, dust clogging his nose and cannon fire ringing in his ears. The charge from the northwest had been successful, but the Union was making a comeback, and the Southern forces were crumbling.

The Army of the Potomac was on the other side. According to his last discussion with Peter, that's where Charlie was.

_Trample them back down! _part of his brain shouted while the other half screamed for him to make a comeback, but Alfred had learned to shut both halves down and just focus on not dying. Not necessarily killing anyone in blue, but also definitely not dying.

Alfred hoped for Charlie's sake that he'd transferred units.

He stood carefully, blinking his vision back through cracked glasses and squinting through the haze. He leapt to the side as a snarling blue soldier came running forward, gun pointed straight for him, and stuck his foot out to trip the man before knocking into the Confederate beside him, causing his gunfire to go wild. Before either could recover he made a break for the side, avoiding the crumpled bodies but unable to avoid the rust-red dirt beneath his boots.

Alfred scanned the crowd, looking for situations to sabotage and the blond hair of his . Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something he'd nearly forgotten he was looking for: a head of brown hair in Confederate grays, racing for the stand of trees on the edge of the ridge.

"Josiah!" he yelled, but his voice was drowned out by musket fire and the shouts of other men. Running through the melee, no longer caring who he interrupted, he chased after the one person he'd promised he would save.

His quarry stopped at the stand of the trees, only then noticing he was being followed. "Who the hell…?" he demanded, gun raised, but froze. "_Alfred Jones?_"

"You," Alfred panted, and promptly ran out of words.

"Why are you _here_?" Josiah demanded.

"Because you shouldn't be!" Alfred retorted.

"Oh, this is all about me running away, is it?"

"Charlie's here!" Alfred spat, and Josiah paled, lowering his gun. "Charlie's with the Army of the Potomac! He left soon after you did!"

"He shouldn't have done that. _You _shouldn't even be here, our family's concerns are not yours! And what's with that uniform?"

Alfred gave a slim mockery of a smile. "I'll have you know I'm a soldier in General Lee's army, and have been for some time now."

Josiah gaped. "But you… you—America… what?"

"I'd like to know the same thing."

Alfred turned and found himself face-t0-face with his original goal. "Charlie!" he exclaimed, but the other only had eyes for his younger brother.

"Hello, Josiah."

"Charles."

Charlie's eyes hardened. "I'll never forgive you for what you did to our mother."

"I expect you did much the same, running off to volunteer right after!" Josiah retorted, but he shrunk back as Charlie brandished his musket, bayonet sharp and glinting in the sunlight between the trees.

"Don't you dare compare the two as if they were similar!"

"Don't you have a wife? Isn't Marcy worried her husband's off to get himself killed?"

"We didn't get a chance to have the wedding because, oh yes, there's a _war_ on!" Charlie shouted, his words punctuated by another resounding cannon boom.

"Of course, the favorite son wouldn't want to leave a widow behind when his side loses, now would he?" Josiah shouted back, his courage slowly returning. "Poor Marcy, all alone, so hopeful for a marriage to help the family but her husband goes off and dies. I'm sure she'll find someone else quickly, a marriage of convenience just like yours—"

Charlie let out a wordless yell and lunged forward, punching his bayonet straight into Josiah's leg. The younger man crumpled to the ground with a pained cry, blood spurting from his thigh, not a mortal wound but certainly incapacitating.

"Don't you _dare_ talk about Marcy like that. I _love_ her," Charlie spat. "Something clearly beyond your understanding if you're going to forsake your family."

He turned away from his brother, fixing Alfred with a flat glare instead. "So, are you planning on telling me why you're wearing the same uniform as he is?"

"Spying," Alfred said succinctly, "for Lincoln."

"You? A spy?" Charlie asked, incredulous. "How'd you get picked for that?"

"I volunteered, actually. Seeing as I haven't died yet I'd say it's been pretty effective," Alfred quipped, but his words felt heavy all the same, with the century and a half of previous non-death going unspoken.

"Well, I suppose they wouldn't take your idiocy otherwise," Charlie replied. "Now stop acting so friendly, you'll blow your cover."

"How's this?" Alfred held his gun up towards Charlie.

"Better, but watch where you point that." Charlie took a step back. "When this is all over… you're still going to be my best man, right?"

Alfred smiled. "Wouldn't miss it for anything."

Charlie returned the grin. "See you when the war's ended, then." With one final glare at Josiah's prone form, he turned and walked out of the stand of trees, back toward battle.

"Try not to get killed," Alfred muttered at his retreating back. "Emeline would have my head."

With that, he knelt down to check on Josiah. Traitor or not, he was family. The young man was groaning, and his pulse was still steady, so Alfred tore a strip off his uniform to wrap around his leg as a bandage. He was about to rise when a voice behind him ordered, "Don't. Move."

Alfred felt the tip of a gun brush the side of his head and his heart started pounding in his ears. Raising his hands slowly, he turned to look at his aggressor, and found himself staring up at Boyd's angry expression.

"Boyd? What—?"

"Don't try whatever innocent routine you've got goin' on me, Jones!"

"Easy, Boyd, we can talk this out—"

"The hell we can! I saw you lookin' pretty friendly with that Union bastard, don't lie!"

"I'm not lyin', Boyd, really—"

"You're a spy, ain't you?"

Alfred inhaled a shaky breath (because what _was_ it with people he knew thinking the worst of him for the last ten minutes), he couldn't get out of this one, and there was _a gun pointed at his head_ and he didn't know if even he could survive his brains being blown out— "I'm a double agent."

The gun wavered slightly, but stayed put. "A what?"

"A double agent. I know, I should've told you sooner, but it's kinda supposed to be a secret. Basically, that soldier's the contact who thinks I'm on his side, when really I ain't."

"You tellin' the truth this time?"

"I swear on it. I'm a Virginia boy, remember? I wouldn't betray my state for nothin'." That struck Alfred as a bit of a low blow, as far as lies went, because the devotion these soldiers had for their states was real, and he felt almost like he was mocking it.

But the gun finally went back to Boyd's side, and the other man mopped his sweaty forehead with a shaking hand. "Damn it, Jones... so the guy on the ground…?"

"Proving my loyalty," Alfred replied ruefully, but shuddered mentally at the memory of the betrayal in Josiah's eyes, the blood soaking through his gray uniform as his own brother ran him through. "See? I was fixin' him up when you showed."

"That's a relief. You don't know how much a relief that is." Boyd shook his dead. "Damn it, Jones, I thought I was gonna have to shoot you, and I like you! That would've been hard!"

Alfred stood, pasting a grin on his face. "Lucky it was you who found me and not some other bastard who'd've misread the whole situation then, ain't it?"

_V~-~-~V_

November 19, 1863

Lincoln sat in his train car as it sped into Gettysburg, and ran his hand down his beard. Speaking at the battlefield cemetery was an event that could have profound implications for the Republican Party, and the rest of the war.

Victory was on the horizon and he knew it. It had, according to Alfred's optimistic letters, always been on the horizon, and inevitable step forward in the life of the nation. He had yet to speak to Alfred about what the Canadian and the Englishman had told him for fear of his letter being intercepted.

Alfred had been at Gettysburg, he knew this. He'd written as if it were a Union success, but Lincoln (and several of his top fellow politicians) were more inclined to see it as a draw. The South had been beaten back and on the retreat ever since, but they'd lost equal numbers of men, and Meade had failed to properly chase down Lee's Army of Northern Virginia and cripple it, resulting instead in a retreat of still-intact forces. He had summarily replaced Meade's role with that of Ulysses S. Grant, thanks to Grant's successes at Vicksburg and the Chattanooga Campaign.

So far, the decision had proved a good one, but he still felt he could capitalize further on the solid stance he had, despite the debacle of the New York draft riots five months before. That particular fiasco had begun with the city's ethnic Irish protesting the ability of wealthy businessmen to buy a draft substitute, and ended in race violence, with the same Irish attacking New York's black citizens and burning buildings.

But the focus of the war had shifted for good, from a war for states rights to a war to end slavery and redefine American democracy for good. Future democracy in a country based on equality could not survive if slavery as an institution continued.

It was really too bad, Lincoln thought, that the world would most likely forget his words soon enough, but he hoped the actions of his administration would prevent policy from backsliding.

"The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here," he murmured, as he scratched his pen across another draft of his Gettysburg address.

The end of the war was on the horizon. He could feel it.

_V~-~-~V_

April 1865

"They finally resolved their problems in the colonies."

Matthew raised an eyebrow behind his round glasses. "You really ought to stop calling them that, especially considering that names were so important to their war."

"I'll call them whatever I bloody well want," Arthur replied. "And I didn't cross that ocean _again_ just to be reprimanded on my naming choices, I came to find your southern counterpart!"

"What do you want to do about it? He's no longer an employee of Lincoln, so we lost our only lead."

"The man told us himself he'd sent the boy off on some spying mission, of all things."

Matthew sighed. "He did, but afterwards Alfred Jones was released from his employ. Lincoln wanted to give him a break, and apparently he needed one. Not that I blame him."

"Oh, certainly not," Arthur grimaced, having experienced the sensation of war more than once himself, though so far none quite as bloody as the Americans'. "But that doesn't change the fact that we need to find him."

"When we spoke to the President he said he preferred to inform Alfred of the Nations himself," Matthew reminded him.

"Be that as it may, he may require proof, and you've met him before yet remained inexplicably the same, so he can conclude that you aren't a human. And he needs guidance, and experience, and _advice_, the kind that we can provide."

"And maybe therapy," Matthew muttered, but Arthur didn't seem to hear.

"We need to get to Washington, DC," Arthur stated with finality. "We've done this all once before, how hard can it be to get in touch with the President in the second go around?"

_V~-~-~V_

_Please, for your own sake, return to Washington. The important information I spoke to you of previously, too delicate to be sent in a letter, is still vital for you to hear._

That was what the President (now newly inaugurated for his second term) had written, and Alfred had, accordingly, ignored. Instead, he'd traveled the South once he'd finished his term with the Confederate Army, someplace he'd never really been before, writing back to the President about the state of the once-grand plantations, the railroads, the opinions of the people, and the feelings of the freedmen. Every time the President had responded with thanks, notes on his plans for Reconstruction once the war drew to a close, and yet another plea for Alfred to return to Washington. Finally, he'd given up on pleas and, in his most recent letter, started on bribery and guilt.

_Now that the scourge of war is over, won't you let yourself have some time for peace? My wife and I plan to attend a performance of "Our American Cousin" this April, and I know we would both be delighted if you would join us._

Alfred had written back with an apology, because he'd already committed to being the best man at Charlie's wedding before the war had even started, and with the long-awaited date finally approaching, he couldn't back out now.

_Why don't you take General Grant instead? He's a much more recognizable public figure, people would love it if their President and war hero both made an appearance, _Alfred had replied. Lincoln had acquiesced. Alfred suspected it had something to do with him knowing the Wetherbys. However, he demanded that Alfred return to Washington as soon as the festivities were over in Springfield, and Alfred had agreed.

Peter had been waiting for him at the train station. "Welcome home," was all he said, and all Alfred could do was grimace because really he should be welcoming his youngest son home, and Alfred had failed to make that happen.

Helen had greeted him with more enthusiasm than the first time despite the missing Josiah. "You've become so skinny! Have you not eaten at all these last few years?" she demanded, and Alfred didn't tell her that she'd also lost weight and gained new wrinkles and gray hairs since he'd last seen her.

"Good to be back," he'd said instead, and at least that had been true.

As it was, Alfred was currently buttoning himself into a rather stifling suit. It was an unusually warm day for April in the Midwest. _At least the suit's a bit loose now,_ he thought to himself, and wrinkled his face at the mirror. He'd had it tailored back when the wedding planning had happened before the war.

There was a knock on the door. Charlie, already dressed, let himself in, and Alfred forced a grin. After all, this was the first Wetherby wedding he'd be attending, and he was supposed to be the cheerful.

"How's the groom doing on this fine morning? You're looking a frazzled!"

"God save me," Charlie gasped. "Save me from my mother. She's decided, all very last-minute, mind you, that the flowers out by the arbor are all the wrong color. She's insisting they'll clash with Marcy's dress." He paused, as if waiting for Alfred to contribute, before concluding, "Nothing clashes with white!"

"You're right about that," Alfred agreed, "but she's probably just very excited for you."

"I know, I know," Charlie grumbled. "If Josiah were here, then she could worry about him instead." He swallowed. His younger brother, still not home, was a touchy topic.

"She'd probably still worry about you, idiot. You're the one getting married."

Charlie looked at him, betrayed. "You're the best man, you're supposed to help me, damn it! Sympathize!"

"That's what you get for asking your uncle," Alfred grinned, and Charlie threw up his hands in defeat. "More to the point, why did you have to pick such a heavy suit fabric?"

"Also my mother's decision. We were originally planning on October, and I think she was planning for it to be unseasonably cold."

"I suppose we can be grateful it's not unseasonably cold now," Alfred said, glancing outside at the clear blue sky. He turned back and absentmindedly fixed Charlie's collar. "Now get out there and make a married man of yourself."

Charlie gave him a crooked grin, those familiar eyes regaining a hint of their former glint for an instant. "I'll see you out there, _uncle_, but I won't be watching _your_ ugly face with my gorgeous fiancée so close."

So he said, but in a matter of hours, Charlie had his eyes locked on Alfred's. "Oh god oh god is she coming yet? How does she look? How do _I _look? What if I forget what I'm supposed to say? _Alfred, what if I forget what I'm supposed to say?_"

Alfred smiled at Charlie's hissed whispers. "It'll be fine. And she's beautiful."

Marcy was beautiful, and smiling like she deserved to for waiting years for this date to become a reality. Alfred barely noticed the heat from the shadow of the flowery arbor, but he sympathized a bit with the priest beside him, dressed in his thick, all-black, high-collared outfit.

Helen Wetherby was dabbing her eyes already, and even Peter looked a bit teary in the front row of the assembled crowd. It was a small crowd of neighbors and cousins, all of whom Alfred had been introduced to as "a friend of Charlie's from out West" and none of whom he remembered the names of.

All he really had to do was stand and smile as Charlie's panic escalated beside him. "Look at Marcy instead of me, remember?"

Charlie tore his gaze away to meet his fiancée's eyes, and when he smiled at her it was if the war years had ever happened and Alfred was reminded of what could have been, of the weddings and family he could've seen, but he'd found his way back and it didn't matter and the future seemed much brighter in comparison.

_V~-~-~V_

Two days later, Alfred would be informed that President Lincoln was dead, and his world would tip on its axis yet again.

V/~-~-~\V

* * *

><p>That's all for now, and probably the last of the familiar Alfred-follows-history plot, because here comes Arthur and Matthew. Hope it was a good comeback!<p>

History (bet none of y'all missed these mini-lessons):  
>The post-war South was a mess, with infrastructure destroyed by the Union, farms (their main source of money) gone, no more of the free, expendable labor they had in slaves, and political and social conflict as they tried to adjust to the new status quo. Reconstruction helped somewhat, but also went unfinished in the end and the South's politicians were largely old Confederates who were voted back into power (not good for any new, progressive policymaking). Basically, rather than rebuilding and moving on, they looked for any way to go back to the pre-war years.<br>The Emancipation Proclamation was issued on September 22, 1862 and enacted on January 1, 1863. It freed only the slaves in territories that had seceded, leaving the few slave states that had stayed in the Union alone. Eventually it was expanded, and after the war, an anti-slavery amendment was written into the Constitution.  
>Lincoln held a personal belief that all men should be free, but he was willing to compromise that to keep the Union together. Having failed that despite much policymaking and compromise and gone to civil war anyway, he went for the "free" part next, and during the Gettysburg Address officially made the Civil War a "war against slavery," not just for states' rights.<br>The battle of Gettysburg was fought in July of 1863 between Lee's Army of Northern Virginia (the owners of the stars-and-bars flag we think of as the Confederate flag today) and Meade's Army of the Potomac. Despite Lee's initial successful charge, the Union held its ground and beat the Confederates out of Gettysburg. Both sides lost around 20,000 men, and though that was a larger percentage of Lee's forces, it wasn't crippling. If Meade had given chase and pressed his advantage, the war might have ended much sooner with such a blow to the South. Unfortunately for the North, he didn't, and was replaced as Union commander with Ulysses S. Grant (who also later became President), who had been leading a successful campaign in the southwest.  
>The Gettysburg Address was very short, only about three minutes total, and became the most quoted speech in American history despite Lincoln saying, "The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here".<br>More details on Lincoln's assassination and aftermath next chapter!

A thing to note: in all of my research and classes, it's clear that even the people America today hails as heroes had their fair share of flaws. Abraham Lincoln was just as much a racist as anyone in his time period, but not believing in slavery made him a progressive, and his stance on black citizenship shifted through the war to become more progressive, as everyone's stances on hot-button issues tend to do. So, a disclaimer: just because Alfred may think a person has no flaws in this story, please note that they do, no matter how heroic we think they are today.

And now that's _really_ all. Hopefully it's cohesive plot-wise and stylistically with the rest of the story up until now, and sorry again for the two-year hiatus. I don't know how frequent updates will be, but they will happen!

As always, if you have any thoughts or questions and time to tell me about them, please don't hesitate to drop a review!


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